Keep The Empty From His Eyes
by Lennelle
Summary: John gets what he wished for, Sam pays the price. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the first of a two-part fanfic. It was going to be a one shot but it got a little long.**

 **Sam is 17 and Dean is 21.**

 **Also, if you read Sam I Am: I am struggling with the next chapter but I am working on it, so have this to tide you over.**

 **I'll probably post the next chapter to this in a couple of days.**

* * *

If Dean had a dollar for every argument his brother and father had, he'd be a very rich man.

Another case, another town, and another reason to start a civil war. They'd arrived in a town in Iowa, a case of strange and mysterious accidents and deaths surrounding the town's more privileged, specifically people who had everything they wanted but still weren't satisfied.

The first incident had been Katrina 'Kitty' Wells, a stuck-up sixteen year-old bully who wanted nothing more than to have a pair of the most expensive shoes, that is until she tripped and poked her eyes out on the heels, leaving her blind. Then there had been Jeffery Dallas, a money-grabbing salesman who had his pockets full to the brim with cash, yet not anything to spare for the needy. Dallas loved money, that is until he began to _eat_ it until he choked to death.

The Winchesters had come to town following the third incident; Jolene Prescott, a bleach-blond housewife to a successful lawyer who was unfaithful to her loving husband, that is until she died suddenly, while in bed with her lover, the autopsy revealed that the wedding ring she'd lost just a day earlier had been imbedded in her heart.

The case was so bizarre that it couldn't be anything other than a witch.

Dean had been sitting at the motel room table for the past hour, trying to research but finding it difficult when there was a yelling match going on just behind him. At seventeen Sam was certainly taller than his father, but John was bigger and more intimidating in every other way, but that didn't put Sam off.

"I'm almost finished high school," Sam growled, "This is my last chance, it's just a stupid soccer team, it won't make that much difference!"

"Then you'll be able to give it a miss," John snapped, cleaning his gun expertly as he kept his eyes on Sam. Sam sighed irritably, pacing back and forth by the beds like a tiger in a cage.

"Stop twisting my words," he hissed, "I'll still hunt, I just want to play soccer too, why can't you let me do anything I want? Do you get off on making me miserable?"

"You've been at that school for less than week," John pointed out, "I need your head in the game, this hunt needs all of our attention, I won't have your mind half in the hunt and half on the soccer field, Samuel."

Sam raised an eyebrow at the sound of his full name, "Well, John, is your mind completely in the hunt, it's not wandering off after the thing that killed mom?"

Dean tensed, the whole room seemed to freeze up.

"Don't bring your mother into this," John gritted out.

"Why not?" Sam threw his hands in the air, "She was my mom too, but no, I'm not allowed to talk about her. I might not remember her but I know for damn sure that she would hate what we do!"

"Sam," John said with eerie calm, "I've had enough of this conversation, I said no."

Sam snorted.

"Drop the attitude," John snapped. Sam just shook his head; holding himself high like he couldn't care less but Dean could see the mistiness of his eyes. He stormed over to the door, grabbing his jacket as he went.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, not waiting for a reply as he disappeared outside, letting the door slam shut behind him. John was on his feet, ready to storm after him but Dean blocked his way.

"Let him cool off," he advised, "Going after him now will just spark another argument."

John clenched his jaw, "I don't want him out on his own while the witch is still out there."

"He won't have gone far," Dean said knowingly, "Besides, he doesn't fit the M.O."

"Oh really?" John snorted, "She seems to be going after spoilt, ungrateful…"

"Dad," Dean interrupted, "Maybe you should cool off too, maybe you can talk when you're both acting like civilised human beings."

John was quiet for a moment, then left, muttering, "I'm going for a drink."

Dean dropped back into his seat with a weary moan, really having had enough of both of his family members. He went back to the police reports, looking for anything in common other than the strange circumstances of each incident.

So far he'd got nothing, he was only certain it was a witch with a rather grizzly sense of humour. He tapped his pen on the paper, his knee bouncing under the table. He glanced at the clock, it was getting late and there was no sign of his dad or brother.

John would probably stumble back in during the early hours of the morning, stinking of whiskey as he dropped into bed. Sam should be back by now, or he should have at least called Dean to let him know he was okay. The kid was either really pissed or really… no, Dean wasn't even going to think about that. Sam was fine.

He jumped to his feet and grabbed his leather jacket and the Impala keys from the crooked coffee table which sat in front of an ancient looking television. He was halfway to the door when Sam slipped quietly into the room, head bowed and hood pulled up.

"You shouldn't be running off by yourself in the middle of a case, you know how dangerous that could be," Dean told him, Sam shrugged.

"I'm fine. Just leave me alone," Sam mumbled, pushing by to go to the bathroom. He locked the door behind himself.

Dean sighed and waited patiently on the end of the bed, tapping his foot to distract from how irritated he was feeling. Sam emerged a few minutes later, having brushed his teeth and washed his face, but Dean could see that Sam's eyes were a little red from attempting to cover up the fact that he'd been crying.

"You going to tell me where you went?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't look at Dean, just shuffled past and changed into his pyjamas, then climbed into bed, curled up beneath the blanket and facing away from Dean.

"This is a little childish, you know?" Dean said, feeling more and more annoyed with Sam's moping, "It's just a soccer team."

Sam didn't say a word, just reached out an arm and turned off the bedside lamp. Dean sighed. If Sam wanted to be a whiney bitch, fine. Dean had been willing to stick up for the kid, even after bringing up mom, but no, Sam didn't need anyone.

But Dean needed Sam so badly, Sam was everything to him, always had been. Obviously, Sam didn't feel the same way. Dean huffed and went back to the table to try to finish researching. He found it hard to concentrate, but Sam had been drifting away for a while now, spending more time doing school work than he did talking to his family. It was like Sam was trying to distance himself from his family.

Eventually, when Dean was sure Sam was asleep, he went over to check on him, only to find Sam buried beneath blankets, a tuft of dark hair protruding from the top. He sighed, something was up with Sam and Dean was going to find out what.

Dean fell asleep at the table at some point, only to be woken in the early hours of the morning by his father attempting to fit his motel room key in the lock. Dean got up and let John in, helping him to the spare bed and removing his jacket and shoes for him.

"You're so good, Dean," John mumbled, slurring slightly as he lay down and closed his eyes. Dean stood there for a moment, wondering if he'd heard properly, and then went back to the table, finding himself unable to sleep so he went back to working.

Dean woke the next morning John and Sam's beds were already empty and Dean could hear the shower running behind the bathroom door. Dean rubbed the grit from his eyes, blinking them clear, feeling stiff and groggy from sleeping at the table. The door opened and John came in, balancing a tray of coffee cups and a takeout bag. Dean reached up and took the tray, setting it down on the table. He took the cup of strong black coffee and took a sip, sighing happily.

"Working late?" John asked. Dean nodded, guessing his father didn't remember the night before.

"Yeah, thought I might've caught onto something but I was wrong," he lied easily.

"I'll send Sam to the library later to look up the town's history," John told him after taking a sip of coffee, "You and I will interview the victim's families."

* * *

Sam had gladly gone off on his own, but Dean had made sure his little brother hadn't left without his knife, holy water, cell phone and gun.

"I'm not taking _gun_ to the _library_ ," Sam had whined, but he'd taken the weapon reluctantly and, hiding it at the bottom of his back pack, he climbed out of the back of the Impala and trudged off to the library entrance without another word.

For John and Dean, the interviews were of little use; just a mother sobbing about how her poor daughter Kitty would never look the same again, never mind the fact she'd never see again. The dead salesman's wife flirted with Dean, flashing new and expensive jewellery. The newly widowed lawyer had broken down over his wife's death and infidelity, barely able to get a word out.

They'd found a hex bag in each of the victim's houses, at least they were certain it was a witch. Sam had had more luck at the library, climbing into the Impala with a smug look on his face and a bunch of notes in his hand.

"There've been similar incidences in the past," Sam began rattling off information right away, "Every few decades or so there have been weird accidents and deaths just like the one. Get this; this one lady back in the sixties had a real green finger, entered gardening competitions, except she used get bitter if she didn't win and would poison other people's plants. She was found dead in her own garden; apparently she slipped on her ladder and got hung by the vines on the side of her house."

"Sounds like our witch," Dean agreed, causing Sam to flash his dimples with a grin, blushing a little.

"And I was talking to some kids who go to the high school too," Sam went on, somewhat excitedly, "Apparently, there's a local legend that a witch lives in a cabin in the forest, local kids dare each other to find her cabin, but there's no properties listed in that area."

John shrugged, pulling into the local diner's parking lot, "Could just be a legend."

Sam scowled, "You were the one who told us all legends come from truth," he muttered under his breath.

For lunch John and Dean tucked into cheese burgers while Sam pushed salad leafs around his plate, glancing awkwardly at his dad now and then, clearly he hadn't let go of the soccer issue.

"I say we investigate the forest later today; before it gets dark," John decided, "Get ready for forest terrain when we get back to the motel."

"Yes, sir," Dean answered. Sam continued to fiddle with his lunch but when he noticed John's stern glare he muttered, "Yes, sir."

John sighed exasperatedly, "Sam, is it so hard for you to be part of this team?"

"No, sir," Sam answered quietly.

"Then do as I say."

"No, sir."

Dean blinked and looked at his brother, Sam had pushed himself up straight and was staring at his father.

"Sam," John warned.

"No, sir, I won't live my entire life by your rule. Yes, sir, I will join the soccer team even if you say no."

John stared at his son for a moment, then fished out his wallet and left the correct amount of bills on the table; he got to his feet without a word and signalled for the boys to follow. Dean left the table, checking over his shoulder to see Sam shuffling along behind him.

"Why do you have to do that, huh?" Dean hissed when Sam reached his side.

"Do what?"

"Start arguments, provoke him, be such a pissbaby…"

Sam pushed on ahead without another word, getting into the car and slamming the door. When Dean slid into the passenger seat Sam and John were already arguing.

"You're acting like a child," John growled, pulling onto the road.

"I'll stop acting like a child when you start acting like a father."

"Watch it, boy."

"Did you ever think that maybe I want my own life?"

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" John demanded, stopping at a traffic light.

Sam went a little pale and dropped his head, "Nothing," he said, leaning against the window.

"C'mon, Sam, talk to me," John pleaded, softening a little at the miserable look on his son's face.

"Nothing to talk about," Sam mumbled. Dean frowned, something was seriously bothering the kid, probably had been for the past few months and Dean had no clue what it could be. They used to be so much closer, Sam used to tell him everything.

John sighed, "Could you just do as you're told for once please, Sammy?"

There was no answer from the back.

"It's like you're trying to make things difficult," John said wearily. Dean couldn't help but agree; for the past few months Sam had been questioning orders at every turn, challenging his father daily.

"You played soccer when you were younger, and I was so proud of you, I'm still proud of you," John went on, "But now that you're older you need to focus on the hunt, otherwise you're putting everyone in danger. Sam, just do as I say."

There was beat of silence, then a quiet, "Yes, sir."

There wasn't another word spoken between them until they returned to the motel room when John ordered them to get their gear ready. They all changed into boots and more durable clothes to hike in the forest, and armed themselves with knives, guns and flashlights.

The forest was old and dark and very suited for a witch to live in. Even in the early afternoon the trees cast huge shadows, branches creaking and swaying in the breeze. The trees were tall, with deep and overlapping, curling into the ground like long fingers.

"Straight out of the creepy, supernatural realty catalogue," Dean joked, "Perfect for all you gross witchy needs."

No one answered with a laugh but both John and Sam couldn't help the curl of a smile on their lips. The headed into the forest, John at the front, Dean at the rear and Sam safely tucked in the middle, as it usually was.

"What are we looking for again," Dean asked after a good few minutes of walking.

"We're just checking the place out," John reminded him, "Any signs that there might be a witch around. If you see a cabin, let me know," he chuckled a little, "Though if she is here I'll bet she'd keep her cabin well hidden."

"You mean a cabin like that?" Sam piped up from the middle. They all stopped, John and Dean's eyes followed the direction Sam was pointing. A little up ahead in the middle off a clearing there was a small cabin, smoke billowing gently from a chimney, odd looking plants growing in the garden around it.

Dean let out a small, "Huh." The cabin had definitely not been there a moment ago. He patted Sam's shoulder, earning a shy grin from the younger hunter. John pulled out his gun, holding it ready, he signalled to his boys and they all took to moving stealthily towards the cabin. Sam and Dean crouched underneath one of the windows while John was backed up against the wall by the door.

Dean carefully took a peek in the window, there was no one in the room, but there was plenty going on; jars filled with powders and an odd number of grotesque things, an altar, complete with spell book, cat's bones and bloody symbols. A pot was boiling over the fireplace, sending sparks on bright colours into the air as the liquid bubbled and spat. Dean crouched down again, silently informing his brother and father of what he'd seen.

John reached out and turned the door knob, it clicked open. He carefully stepped inside, gun raised and ready to fire, Sam followed, then Dean, keeping his eyes on the surrounding woods. They spread out and scanned the room; Sam looked at the spell books but knew better than to touch them. Dean grimaced at the sight of jars full of eyes, live worms and some things he couldn't identify.

"Looks like we've got the right place," John said, he was standing next to the altar. There were photos of the three victims on the wall. Kitty's school photo had two pins in her eyes, the salesman had one in his throat, and the lawyer's wife had one in her heart.

The three of them took no hesitation in tipping the table and destroying the alter.

Someone from behind cleared their throat, causing the Winchesters to whirl around. There was a young woman standing in the doorway, a hand on her hip. She wore a knee-length black dress and black boots, her hair was red, falling in long waves down her back. She was not who Dean would have pegged as the inhabitant of the cabin.

"You know it's rude to barge onto someone else's property?" she drawled, strolling into the room and paying no notice when the three of them aimed their guns at her.

"I'd heard there were hunter's nearby," she went on, "I suppose I expected you to turn up eventually."

"Yeah, well, I guess this isn't your lucky day," Dean smirked. The witch looked up and blinked, then snorted.

"Please," she sneered, "You don't frighten me."

"You should be," John growled, "You're responsible for how many deaths?"

Her head snapped up, "I grant wishes," she said, sounding a little irritated that they might have thought otherwise.

"No one wished to be blinded or murdered," Sam said angrily.

"Enough talk," Dean interrupted, "Let's end the bitch."

Suddenly, their guns were flying from their grasps with a wave of the witch's hand.

"Like I said," she smirked, "You don't frighten me."

She kept her hand raised threateningly and none of the Winchesters dared to move. She took a few steps over to one of the shelves in the room and retrieved a jar of black shimmering powder.

"I grant wishes," she said again, "But I also teach lessons. People can become very ungrateful of what they already have, I like to remind them to be more appreciative."

She eyed them all in turn, "All of you have a similar problem," she said, her gaze wandered to Sam, "Young boy, you feel so trapped, so smothered, so unhappy, you don't realise how loved you are. I could remind you of that."

Sam froze up, she turned to Dean, "You leave a string of nameless women, you don't realise you've already met a few potential lifelong loves, you didn't give them a chance. You disrespected them. I ought to take your manhood away."

Dean startled, hands protectively covering his downstairs.

Her eyes lit up when they fell on John, "But, you, you are something else," she smiled, "I can give you your wish, I can make him do as he's told."

Before anyone could move she whirled on Sam and held out a handful of the black powder and blew it into his face. Sam stumbled back, grimacing as she muttered out some ancient words. Dean lunged at her with his knife but it fell through empty air. The witch was gone, the candles in the room snuffed out.

* * *

 **Please take a moment to review if you can.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for such an amazing response to the first chapter. I appreciated your reviews so much that I've expanded this into a three-part story. The ending will be far different to what was originally planned, in fact, there will be a lot more drama.**

 **Thank you all so much for adding this to your alerts and favourites.**

* * *

There was a moment of breathlessness between the three of them, their minds still trying to catch up with them as they stood in cold, dimming cabin.

Dean turned quickly to Sam who was wiping frantically at his face, but his hands came away clean, as was his face, there was no sign of the shiny black powder.

"What did she do?" Sam panted, looking more than a little freaked, he was flitting his wide-eyed gaze between his brother and father.

"How do you feel?" John asked, stepping forward to inspect Sam, hands moving gently over his face.

"Freaked out," Sam said, voice raising an octave, "That can't have been good… I'm not going blind am I?"

"You can see, can't you?" Dean pointed out. Sam waved his hand in front of his face as if to prove it, shoulders dropping with relief when he realised he could still see.

"You're okay," John assured Sam, but he shared a look with Dean that said he thought otherwise, "Let's go back to the motel and give you a proper look over."

Sam nodded, a little shakily, and allowed his father to guide him towards the door by his arm. His eyes were still wide and frightened, he had his arms wrapped around himself, his fingers digging into his skin. John gazed at Sam, looking worried.

"Sam," he said, squeezing his son gently, "Calm down."

Sam froze where he stood, when John and Dean turned to him he was gazing into the distance, eyes vacant. He started swaying a little, ankles going weak as he lost balance. Suddenly, Sam went limp, falling into John's arms, head lolling back, mouth gaping as his eyes rolled up.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, rushing forward to help John lower Sam safely to the ground, "Come on, kid, open your eyes."

Sam didn't so much as twitch. John patted at Sam's cheek until the skin turned pink, Sam didn't wake up, just stayed deeply unconscious. Dean pried open his brother's lids, Sam's eyes were rolled up. He tried pinching Sam's skin but Sam didn't even make a sound.

"God damn it!" Dean shouted angrily, slapping the floor hard in frustration.

Sam was completely motionless, only the soft movement of his breaths were any sign of life. He was pale; his face was lax and young.

"Shit!" John hissed, "Fuck!"

"What do we do?" Dean tried not to let his voice tremble, his fingers brushed lightly over Sam's cheek where the redness was fading.

John straightened out with a sharp breath, "Do you see the jar of powder she got him with?" he asked, sounding like he was trying to keep his voice calm.

Dean scanned the surroundings frantically, "I think she took it," he said breathlessly, he scrambled to his feet and hurried over to the shelves, checking each jar, "No, it's not here."

"We can't stay here," John decided, "We need to get him back to the motel room. We'll call Bobby, he might know what that powder was."

"Dad, last time you and Bobby spoke it didn't end well."

"Well, this is Sam we're talking about," John argued.

Dean nodded, then gulped, "Dad, what if it's poison or…"

"Don't think that," John snapped, "We need to get him somewhere safe."

He bent down and slid his arms under Sam's back and knees, pulling him into his arms. Sam was a skinny kid, but with the extra inches he had on them he was definitely too heavy to carry, had been since he was fifteen, but John took his son's weight like it was nothing.

Dean collected their guns and led the way out of the cabin. The two of them walked side by side through the forest, Sam's head bounced with each heavy step, his arm swung limply by his side.

"What wish does she think she's granting you?" Dean asked, "She said she'd make him do as he's told."

"I don't know, Dean," John insisted, then he gazed down at Sam's slack face, "Him being like this doesn't add up."

They lay Sam in the back seat of the Impala, his body rocked over the bumpy roads throughout the whole drive back to the motel and he still didn't wake up. At the motel they hurried inside, making sure the coast was clear, the last thing they needed was some passer-by freaking out about the comatose teenager being manhandled into a motel room. Inside, they lay him on the nearest of the two beds.

Sam was in the same condition; completely out cold. Dean tried yelling, slapping Sam's cheek, shaking him, to no avail. John tried using smelling salts, which only proved how powerful the spell was when Sam's nose barely even twitched. The two of them sat back, feeling defeated and worried.

"Sammy, wake up," John said tiredly. Sam's eyes opened immediately.

"Sam," Dean breathed with relief as he jumped to his feet and moved over to lean over his brother, "Thank God. Where did you go, huh?"

Sam didn't say a word, didn't even acknowledge Dean had spoken, he just stared at the ceiling. Dean frowned and slipped his fingers through Sam's hair, using the other hand to cup his face and tilt it towards him. Sam looked right through him.

"Sam?" Dean said fearfully, and then looked to John, "Dad, what's wrong with him?"

"I don't know, son," John replied, frowning. He bent closer to his youngest, laying a hand on his chest, "Sam look at me."

Sam did, his eyes flicked over to John's face and stayed there. John's eyes widened and he shared a glance with Dean, both of them having the same thought. The two of them stood back, the whole time Sam's gaze followed his father

"Sam," John said hesitantly, "Sit up."

Sam did, staring at his dad, occasionally blinking lazily.

"Pat your head," John ordered

Sam reached up and patted his head, moving mechanically.

"Rub your stomach."

Sam did, sitting on the bed, staring at John expressionlessly as he patted his head and rubbed his stomach.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed, eyeing his brother with a mix of fear and curiosity, "Do you think he'll just keep doing it?"

"Sam, stop," John ordered. Sam dropped his arms back to his sides and averted his gaze to the wall directly opposite. The two of them moved into Sam's line of sight, but the kid wasn't looking at them, he wasn't looking at anything really, just gazing straight ahead. His eyes were empty, completely dead, his face was emotionless and relaxed.

"Sam, stand up," Dean ordered. His little brother didn't respond. Dean bent down and took Sam's face in his hands, tilting it from side to side, Sam just let him. John was staring at his youngest curiously, then he put a hand on Dean's shoulder and pulled him away.

"Wait a second," he said, Dean frowned at him, "I think I get it, Dean. Look."

Dean looked at Sam, who was still staring lifelessly into the distance.

"Sam," John called, "Stand up."

Sam stood up.

"Touch your toes."

Sam did.

"Stand back up straight," John finally ordered, Sam did as he was told.

"He only does what you tell him," Dean realised, turning to his father with an accusing glare, "Because you wished he'd do as he's told, but now that's all he can do; breathe, blink and do what you tell him."

"Well, I could just tell him to stop," John suggested, turning to Sam, "Sam, go back to normal."

Nothing.

"Break the spell, Sam."

Nothing, just staring and blinking and breathing.

"Talk to me, Sammy," John pleaded.

"What do you want me to talk about?" Sam asked, sounding flat. John and Dean almost jumped, neither had expected Sam to speak, but to hear his voice so unlike Sam's wasn't a pleasant experience.

"Are you awake in there?" John asked fearfully, "Are you trapped?"

"I am currently not in a state of sleep," Sam replied dutifully, "I am not trapped; there is an adequate amount of space in the motel room."

"So, he takes things very literally," Dean noted, "We should be careful about that."

Morbid thoughts popped into Dean's head and he shuddered. He turned to his father.

"If the witch can cast the spell then she can sure as hell lift it," John growled.

"You can't go back now, it's getting dark," Dean reasoned, "You won't be able to find your way around with no light and she'd have the advantage, if something happens to you Sam would be left like this forever."

John nodded, "Then we go back in the morning," he looked at Sam and sighed, "We'll just have to watch out for you until then."

There was a quiet moment, Dean and John gazing worriedly at the youngest while Sam blinked into the distance.

"You wanna order food?" Dean suggested, trying to fill the uneasy silence, "I think getting him to a diner would be hard when he's like this."

John looked at Sam for a moment longer then told him to sit, and he dropped back onto the end of the bed.

"I'll go to the desk to ask about takeout menus," John said, already heading for the door, he stopped and turned to Dean, "Watch your brother."

The door fell shut behind John and Dean scoffed, "I always do, right, Sammy?" he asked his brother, smirking. His grin instantly fell at Sam's empty silence.

The lack of life in his little brother was freaking Dean the hell out, and he began pacing the room. He suddenly jumped at Sam with a yell, Sam didn't even flinch. He even attempted to make Sam laugh, telling him about the time he wore pink panties for a girl and liked it.

"Come on, Sam," Dean moaned, "I never told you that. You'd be dying to use that against me."

Nothing.

Dean sighed, "You leave me no choice," he warned and lunged forward, tickling Sam all over. Sam's body tightened up but he didn't laugh or cry for Dean to get off. Dean let him go and sat back.

"Seems like you can still feel, just you can't really react," Dean said sadly, "If you're awake in there I want you to know that I'm gonna fix this. I swear, Sammy."

Sam didn't even look at him. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face wearily, "Let's try one final time, ready?"

Nothing. He hadn't really expected an answer anyway.

"If Sam Winchester wasn't a virgin he'd cry his way through sex," Dean taunted, he raised a hopeful eyebrow but sighed when Sam didn't even acknowledge him, "Come one, Sammy, snap out of it. Are you really going to let Dad boss you around?"

Apparently he was. Dean just talked to Sam, not teasing anymore, just reminding him of good times they had together like 4th July 1996. He thought that if Sam was trapped inside himself than he would want to hear something nice to keep his mind off of it. Dean was interrupted when John returned with a handful of takeout menus.

"Any change?" he asked, setting the menus down on the table.

"He tensed a tiny bit when I tickled him, but nothing else," Dean shook his head, "He won't acknowledge that I'm here."

"It's the spell, Dean, he can't," John said sympathetically, he bent down in front of his youngest, "Sam, do as Dean says too."

There was no reaction.

"Did it work?" Dean asked hopefully, looking at Sam, "Sammy, put your left hand in."

Sam didn't do anything. John turned to Dean with a smirk, "We're you going to make him do the Hokey Cokey?"

Dean shrugged, "It was the first thing that came to mind… doesn't matter anyway, he didn't do it. Looks like you've got full responsibility of Sam, Dad."

John gulped, realising that this was the first time. John was the only parent Sam had had or known, sure, but Dean had been the one to raise him while John had hunted, he'd been the one to steal food for Sam when he was hungry. He was the one who'd tried to give Sam a Christmas when John hadn't shown up like he'd promised he would. The realisation was a smack in the face for John and he looked to Dean, noticing how bitter he'd sounded when he'd spoken.

"Has he been to the bathroom?" Dean asked, "I bet he'd not do it on his own even if he needed to."

"Oh, uh, right," John hadn't thought of that and he got to his feet, "Sam, go to the bathroom."

Sam stood up and walked to the bathroom, he stopped inside, just standing in the centre of the room when he got there, waiting for the next command.

John sighed, "Sam, if you need to, use the toilet," he commanded, "And flush and clean yourself up after," he added quickly.

Sam went over to the toilet and unzipped his jeans, Dean quickly shut the door.

They waited for the sound of flushing, then the tap running as Sam washed his hands. Then nothing, Sam didn't make an appearance. They opened the door, Sam was standing in the middle of the room again. Staring aimlessly at the grubby tiles.

"Sam, come back in here and sit down at the table," John ordered, sounding weary. Sam took the nearest seat, John and Dean sat on either side of him, watching closely in case they might have missed something. When they got nothing, they turned back to face each other with twin expressions of hopelessness.

"What does everyone want to eat?" John asked. Both of them looked at Sam again, who continued to stare straight ahead.

"Just get him salad or something," Dean suggested, "I want pizza though, with pepperoni, onions, chillies, peppers and extra cheese."

"Right," John nodded, grimacing at Dean's order. He handed the motel phone to his son, "You order, I'm going to give Bobby a call, if anyone knows how to fix this it's him."

He got to his feet and pulled out his cell.

Dean leaned forward and looked at his little brother, listening to John explaining the situation to Bobby over the phone. Dean reached up and poked Sam's cheek, which got no reaction, he went on the flicking his ear, which got no reaction.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean whispered, "Come back, I'm starting to miss you, things are getting boring without you."

Sam didn't even seem to hear him. Dean sighed and dialled the number for the pizza takeout, getting a chicken salad for Sam.

John came back to the table just as Dean hung up, flipping his cell phone shut.

"Bobby's looking into it, says there's a number of things it could be," he informed Dean, rubbing a calloused hand over his face, "He says I'm an idjit for letting it happen, and that we have to keep a close eye on him because even when a spell seems bad it's probably even worse."

"Do you reckon he could do anything, just because you tell him to?" Dean asked, looking at Sam, "Like I'm sure Sam can't draw, but if you told him to…"

"We're not going to find out, your brother isn't a performing monkey," John scolded.

Dean scowled, "I never said he was… but maybe we should see just how far this goes."

John frowned, considering it, then he reluctantly nodded. He grabbed the motel notepad and pen and set it down in front of Sam. John took his seat again.

"Sam," John said, "I want you to draw Dean, in perfect detail, I want you to do it in fifteen minutes."

Dean glared and John shrugged, "Do you want to pose for a portrait for hours?" he asked, raising his eyebrow. Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to Sam who had already put pen to paper and was sketching away.

It took fifteen minutes exactly, the whole time Dean didn't move a muscle, when Sam was done he put the pen down and resumed his vacant staring. Dean and John leaned in to get a good glimpse at the picture, both of their mouths dropped. Sam had drawn a perfect picture of Dean, it was harsh and sketchy, but it was beautifully detailed in a way Sam would never have been able to draw. Sam couldn't draw for shit and here he was sketching like DaVinci.

"So, basically, he can do anything," Dean said, feeling a little uncomfortable by the idea, "Dad, you have to be careful what you say, even if it's just a figure of speech."

"Dean," John frowned, "I'm not gonna let anything happen to him."

Dean nodded, not bothering to point out that Sam had had a spell cast on him under John's watch. Under both their watch. Dean tilted his head thoughtfully as he looked at his brother, wondering even more what Sam had been so worked up about lately.

"Maybe this thing could have an upside," he said, "You know how he's been acting weird lately? Maybe now's the right time to ask him about it."

John opened his mouth, then closed it, looking conflicted. "No," he decided, "It's not right when he can't help but tell us."

"You might never find out," Dean pointed out, "It's probably better for him to get it out in the open. Come on, Dad, you know something's up with him."

John sighed, then turned to Sam, "Tell me the truth."

"What do you want me to tell you the truth about?" Sam asked immediately.

"No, this is weird, you're right," Dean changed his mind, "It's not fair on him."

"Never mind, Sam," John dismissed him, Sam went back to staring into space. John's fists tightened, jaw clenching, "This is a fucking mess… I want her dead!" he bellowed in frustration.

Sam got to his feet, grabbing the gun from the duffel which lay at the foot of the bed, and went towards the door. Dean yelled, nearly screamed at his dad to stop him, John grabbed Sam's hand as it went for the door handle and shouted, "Stop, Sam!"

Sam stopped, standing right in front of John, looking blank and lost. John and Dean stared at him, wide-eyed, breathing out heavily.

"God, Dad, be careful what you say in front of him," Dean hissed, "Fuck!"

John nodded, trying not to look at his youngest, "Sam, give me the gun," he ordered, getting to his feet once the weapon was deposited in his hand, and he moved as far from Sam as he could, taking a few breaths, "I'm going to destroy that witch."

"Seems like he takes requests as well as orders," Dean said, "You really need to be careful around him, what if someone had seen him walking around with a gun, or worse, saw him _killing_ the witch?"

"I didn't let it get that far," John argued, "He didn't even open the door."

Dean snorted, "Dad, this is a spell, things are never simple."

Their food arrived, which John had to instruct Sam to eat. Then, he told Sam to brush his teeth, then rinse his mouth, then use the toilet, then change into pyjamas, then get into bed. When Sam lay under the covers and stared at the ceiling he told him to go to sleep, and Sam did.

"I hope he's not awake for any of this," John said quietly to Dean, a habit to not wake Sam even when he knew Sam wouldn't do so without permission, "I hope he doesn't remember when the spell's gone."

The next morning they went back to the forest, Sam had been commanded to follow John, which proved more difficult than it sounded because Sam did not pay attention to where he stepped and ended up tripping over roots multiple times, only to clamber back to his feet and follow after John, ignoring the rips on his jeans.

It got to the point where John had to order Sam to sit on a log so they could clean his bloody knees and dab up the dirt from the wounds. When they got back to the trail John made sure to say, "Sam, follow me and watch where you step, make sure you don't fall."

Sam didn't trip once after that.

The clearing where the cabin had been was empty, Dean had half-expected it but it didn't make it any less of a disappointment. Sam couldn't stay this way for much longer, he couldn't live like that.

They scoped the area out, but it was like nothing had ever been there. They were about to go back when they heard someone clear their throat, soft and feminine and smug. John and Dean whirled around; the witch was standing right next to Sam, softly caressing his cheek.

"Get the hell away from him," Dean snarled, gun raised, but he didn't dare shoot for the fear of hitting Sam.

She chuckled, "You should know by now that you don't scare me," she said, and then looked up to Sam's blank face, "Are you enjoying your gift?"

"Fix him," John said through gritted teeth.

The witch raised an eyebrow, "Fix him? But I've already done that. You wished for your rebellious son to do as he was told, to be the perfect soldier, and now he is. Don't you like my gift?"

"Put him back to the way he was!" John growled.

"I don't think I appreciate that tone," she said darkly, then turned to Sam, "Boy, choke yourself."

Sam wrapped his fingers around his throat and squeezed. His face turned red, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, he fell to his knees.

"Sam, stop!" John cried. Dean ran over and skidded to his knees beside his brother, trying to pry Sam's fingers from his throat but they wouldn't budge. Sam didn't even listen to John's command.

The witch giggled, "Sam, stop," she ordered. Sam let go of his throat and fell forward into Dean, gasping for air. Dean gripped his brother's face in his hands, heart dropping when he found that Sam was still very much under the spell.

"You may be able to command him," the witch said, "But I have more power here."

"Please don't kill him," Dean begged, rubbing Sam's back.

The witch smirked, "I won't. In fact, I can't, your boy's marked for someone much more dangerous than me."

"What does that mean?" John demanded.

"It means I can't kill him, but you can if you're not careful… Though, that wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing."

"Please, break the spell and we won't come after you, we promise," John pleaded.

"I won't be coming back here again anyway," the witch laughed, "But I don't think this is the last we'll see of each other- your boy interests me. And I never thought you'd be one to beg, Winchester."

"You're the only one who can do it," John said.

"Not true," the witch countered, "I can break the spell, of course, but so can you."

"How?"

"All you have to do it appreciate what you have," she said.

"I do, I appreciate him," John insisted.

The witch's red lips curled into a snarl, "Do you?"

He blinked and she was gone.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, please review if you can.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm back...**

* * *

"Dad?" Dean called, voice cracking a little, "What do we do?"

Sam was still heaving breaths in his brother's arms, bruises were already forming on his neck, but his eyes were as blank as ever.

"We go to Bobby's," John said, bending down to check Sam's bruises, "He should be safer there, Bobby might know what to do."

"And if he doesn't?" Dean asked shakily.

"He will," John said, trying to sound sure, "He has to."

Dean held his brother at arm's length to get a good look at him; Sam's breaths were steadying. Dean patted his cheek gently, partly to comfort and partly with the hopes of rousing him. Sam made no reaction, just stared right through him.

They helped Sam the way back, holding him up straight between them. Where Sam's mind completely belonged to John, his body was still his own, even if John had commanded Sam to walk by himself he would have tried, been relentless, probably would have hurt himself, but he wouldn't have been able to do it. His body was still recovering from nearly strangling himself to death.

They sat him in the back seat of the Impala and ordered him to slowly drink some water before heading back to the motel to check out. John didn't want to leave Sam waiting in the car by himself, and Dean didn't argue, Sam wouldn't be able to defend himself in his state.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed with that faraway look in his eye as John and Dean shoved their meagre possessions into their duffels. Dean was balling up Sam's shirts and dumping them into his bag, he frowned when he heard the crinkle of paper. Curiosity shot through him and he dug around at the bottom of the bag. He pulled out some leaflets, his frown deepened.

 _Going to College: A guide_

 _Harvard: Accommodation and Student life_

 _Stanford University: A student's guide_

 _Princeton: Financial Aid Overview_

Dean tensed up, fingers curling into the brochures until their crinkled. He shot a look over his shoulder at Sam, who was still staring at nothing. He could hear John clearing out the bathroom so he quickly shoved the papers back into the bottom of Sam's bag and zipped it up.

"Sam," he whispered, crouching down in front of his brother, "If you can hear me, I know that you're looking into colleges. I'm not telling Dad… that's something you should do. I just, why didn't you tell me?"

Sam blinked lazily, other than that he barely moved a muscle.

"You ready, Dean?" John called, appearing in the bathroom doorway. Dean jumped to his feet.

"Yes, sir."

John nodded, "Okay, Sam, follow me to the car," he ordered, already halfway out of the motel room. Sam followed after him, leaving Dean alone to swallow the lump in his throat.

It was a long drive from Iowa to South Dakota, after half an hour Sam hadn't even squirmed in his seat, he was just sat frozen. Normally, he was sprawled out across the bench, his long legs sticking up to rest his feet against the window. During a long drive he used to constantly move; squirm, talk, mope, flick the pages in whatever book he was reading. He always did _something_.

"It's weird having him so quiet," Dean said, "I'm actually beginning to miss the sound of him being a little know-it-all."

They both chuckled. John sighed, "I wish he'd do something. Laugh."

Sam laughed, startling his brother and father, who swerved on the road a little. It was a forced laugh, like a recording set on repeat, going over and over. Dean turned to see Sam smiling, eyes blank, laughing loud and hard.

"Stop, Sam," John ordered, sighing. Sam laughing like that was unnerving to witness and Dean was thankful when it came to an abrupt stop. Dean sank back down into his sit, tapping his foot as he thought hard about their encounter with the witch in the woods.

"She said to break the spell that you have to appreciate what you already have," Dean said, turning to his father, "I guess she meant Sam."

John glanced up to the rear-view mirror, catching sight of his youngest, "I do appreciate him," he defended, "Of course I do."

Dean frowned, feeling unsure, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "If that's right then what did she mean?"

John clenched his jaw and swallowed, "She was probably messing with us."

"And she said he was marked for someone else," Dean remembered, "Is that to mess with us too?"

John didn't answer for a moment, just concentrated on the road. "I don't know what that meant," he said after a beat. His tone of voice was odd, Dean thought, there was guilt there. John was hiding something, just like Sam was.

"I was thinking about what you said, that now is the best time to find out what's bothering Sam," John spoke up after a moment of quiet.

"I don't know, Dad," Dean said hurriedly, he was certain Sam had been acting weird because of the college brochures, he was even more certain that John wouldn't be happy about it, "Let's just wait until the spell's broken, huh?"

John frowned, "Dean, you're the one who suggested it in the first place," he pointed out, "He probably won't tell us when we get him back to normal."

"Dad, I don't think…"

John ignored him. "Sam, tell us how you're feeling," he ordered, eyes still on the road.

"I don't feel anything," Sam answered. Dean shuddered.

"That doesn't sound good," he said. John frowned, agreeing.

"Okay," John sighed, "How did you feel before the spell was cast on you?"

"There had been a slight drop in temperature at the time so I felt chilled, other than that I was in perfect condition."

"Sam, that's a physical feeling, okay?" John groaned.

"It was a physical feeling, I understand," Sam agreed.

"Jesus," Dean exclaimed, "You could tell him the moon is made of cheese and he'd believe you."

John gave a short breathy laugh then sighed, "I don't think we're going to get anywhere with him when he's like this. You're right, Dean, we'll talk to him when he's back to normal."

That was an improvement, Dean thought, John was actually willing to talk to Sam. He leaned over the back of the passenger seat, Sam still stared right through him.

"Hey, Dad," Dean called back, "Maybe this is what the witch meant by 'appreciating' him. Maybe you just have to be willing to listen to him."

"I do listen to him," John defended.

Dean raised an eyebrow, "You both don't listen to each other."

"True," John agreed, he cast another look at Sam, "I'm willing to listen to him, so why isn't the spell broken?"

"I don't know," Dean answered honestly, "Maybe we should stop for a while; get some food, go to the bathroom."

John nodded and pulled into the first rest stop they saw a few minutes later. He parked the car and took the keys from the ignition.

"What do we do with Sam?" he asked, turning to Dean. Dean twisted around to look at his brother.

"We should make him use the bathroom and eat something," Dean pointed out, "We take him with us."

"They only have diner here," John observed the sign, "He'll have to come sit down. This is going to be difficult," he sighed, "Okay, Sam, get out of the car."

Sam climbed out and waited.

"Come on, Sammy, come with me," John ordered, looking tired and sad. Sam followed John towards the diner, Dean hurried after them.

"I'll take him to the bathroom, you get us a table," John ordered, directing Sam to the back of the restaurant. Dean wandered over to the hostess.

"Hello there," she greeted cheerfully, "How can I help you?"

"Table for three, please," Dean replied, flashing her a smile. The hostess smiled, not-so-subtly checking him out, and she grabbed three menus and showed him to a table by the window.

"Can I get you any drinks?" she asked as Dean took his seat, her pen and notepad were out and ready.

"Uh, just three glasses of water for now, thanks," Dean requested. The hostess nodded and turned away, chewing gum and swinging her hips. Dean peered to get a glimpse of her ass; she caught him and winked, disappearing into the kitchen. If they weren't in such a dire situation, Dean would definitely get to know her better.

Dean looked up when he noticed Sam walking dreamily over to the table with John behind, his hands ghosted over his son's shoulders to stop him bumping into anything. Sam took a seat next to Dean as ordered; John took the seat opposite them both.

"Everything okay?" Dean asked, sensing his father's weariness.

"I'm just getting tired of this damn spell," John grumbled, "Sam doesn't deserve this."

"He doesn't," Dean agreed, "So we have to break this spell or he'll be stuck like this. I mean, what if something happened to you? What would that mean for him?"

"I won't let anything happen to him," John growled, "I'll die before I let something happen to him."

"Exactly! If you put your neck on the line, like you always do, and you get killed then Sam will be a freaking vegetable without you to tell him what to do."

"Dean," John warned, "Keep your voice down, alright? I won't let that happen, I'm sorry."

"I just, I just can't see him like this for much long," Dean whispered.

"Can I take your orders?" John and Dean startled when the waitress seemingly appeared from nowhere. She set three glasses and a jug of water down on the table.

"Right," John nodded, "I'll have a cheeseburger."

"I'll have the bacon double cheeseburger with extra onions," Dean added. The waitress turned to Sam.

"And what'll you be having, honey?" she asked. Sam didn't answer, of course, and she turned to Dean with a questioning look on her face.

"Uh, he's uh," Dean tried to think hurriedly, "He's deaf."

The waitress' eyes widened, "Oh… I'm so sorry," she sounded embarrassed, "I didn't know."

"It's fine," Dean assured her, "He'll take the, uh…" he quickly scanned the menu, "He'll have the cob salad."

The waitress nodded and walked back to the kitchens.

"I think he likes cob salad," Dean said as an afterthought. He grabbed a glass and filled it, setting it in front of Sam.

"Drink," John instructed. Sam brought the glass to his lips and drank, swallowing all of the water in one go.

"Maybe slow it down next time," Dean suggested, sending his father a sharp glare.

The waitress re-emerged from the kitchen, balancing three full plates, "Cheeseburger," she smiled as she set the plate down for John, "Bacon double cheeseburger for you," she winked at Dean, "And the cob salad," she put the plat in front of Sam, smiling at him, her frown quickly turned sympathetic when Sam didn't even look her way.

"Enjoy your meals," she said before leaving to serve another customer.

"Sam, eat the salad, but at a reasonable pace," John ordered. Sam reached out and picked up a shred of lettuce. "No, Sam, use the fork," John cried exasperatedly. Sam picked up the fork and began to spear away at the salad, shoving bites into his mouth and chewing mechanically.

They ate mostly in silence, too busy checking that Sam was managing alright. John quickly paid the bill and ordered Sam to go to the car, Dean went with him. Sam was so set on his command that he didn't seem to take into account any obstacles which might have blocked his way, such as moving cars.

Dean had been a step behind Sam, after trying to scuff something from the bottom of his shoe, when Sam had stepped out in front of a van. The driver had slammed down onto the breaks as Dean had slammed into his little brother, throwing them both out of the way of the van and straight onto the hard concrete ground.

"Jesus!" the van driver came running over, "He just stepped onto the road, I swear. Are you boys okay?"

Dean clambered clumsily to his feet, trying to dust off the gravel from his clothing. He turned to help Sam up but his little brother was already on his feet, limping over to the Impala, still intent on fulfilling his command.

"He's okay," Dean breathed, watching Sam stand by the car, and turned back to the van driver, "I'm really sorry about that."

"What the hell was he thinking, huh?" the van driver demanded, "Stepping out into the road like that."

"He's deaf," Dean shrugged, smiling awkwardly, "He didn't hear you."

"You should keep a better eye on him," the driver scolded, marching back to his van.

"It's an independence thing," Dean shouted back, "Trying to prove he can manage on his own, you know?"

The van drove away. Dean's shoulders dropped and he hurried over to his little brother, checking him over.

"Is this an independence thing?" he asked, looking into Sam's dead eyes, "Is that why you want to go to college? We can give you some space, you know? You don't have to leave."

Sam just stared straight through him and Dean sighed.

"College?" John spoke up from behind, causing Dean to whirl around. John was standing just behind them, keys in hand as he stared from Dean to Sam and back again.

"Dad…"

John cut him off with a curt shake of his head, "Dean, tell me what's going on."

"Well, Sammy nearly got run over for starters," Dean gestured to Sam's newly cut up knees.

"What?" John barked, rushing over to look Sam over, "Weren't you watching him?"

"I was, Dad," Dean defended, "He was just so hell-bent on making it to the car, like you told him to. I'm sorry."

"Is he okay?" John checked.

Dean nodded, "A little scratched up but yeah."

John stared at Sam for a moment longer, a crease forming on his brow, "College?" he repeated. Dean swallowed and nodded.

"I found brochures in his duffel when I was packing it," he explained.

"And when were you going to tell me about this?" John demanded, "That is, if you were going to tell me."

"I thought that should be up to Sam," Dean tried to keep his voice level, "When he's a freaking zombie he can't exactly explain himself."

John glanced between them both for a beat, then he strode around to the driver's side, "Sam, sit in the back seat," he called. Sam immediately opened the car door and sat down. Dean had to close the door for him before he took his place in the passenger's side.

John was gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white, he kept his eyes on the road, hard and glaring. Dean barely moved or made a sound in his seat, allowing his father to process the new information.

"College," John said again, though this time it was weary, almost accepting, "I guess I saw it coming, I just didn't want to believe it."

"He's always been independent," Dean added, "I guess he'd always want to go his own way. But, Dad, Sammy can't leave, right?"

"He's not going anywhere," John said surely, "Not if I have anything to do with it."

Dean sighed with relief, desperate for his little brother to stay with them, "We can talk him out of it," he suggested, "We have to be calm about it, any wrong move and he'll be out the door."

"I know," John answered.

"As soon as this spell is broken we'll talk to him," Dean decided.

"Dean, this is a curse," John said slowly, "But that doesn't mean we can't do something good with it."

Dean frowned, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," John gave a short sigh, glancing briefly to his oldest son, "Sam does anything I tell him to. Maybe I should tell him not to go."

"Dad," Dean was speechless for a moment, "That's… you can't do that."

"Why not?" John argued, "This is for his own safety; if he leaves us then he's in danger to all of the nasty sons of bitches out there. How do you think demons will react when they hear a Winchester is out there on his own, huh?"

"But we should at least talk to him about it," Dean reasoned.

"Dean, you know as well as I do that he won't listen," John said, "When he sets his mind to something it's damn hard to change it."

"What if it the command goes away when the spell breaks?" Dean pointed out.

John shrugged, "Then the command goes away and he'll be pissed at us for even trying… that is if he's even conscious right now."

Dean turned in his seat, staring at his little brother in the back. He wondered if Sam could even hear their conversation. He was torn; it wasn't right to mess with Sam when he was vulnerable, yet, if Sam was on his own Dean wouldn't be able to protect him. Their dad was right; Sam would be a beacon for monsters if he was on his own, he'd always been a magnet for trouble, the situation he was in was proof enough of that.

"What would the command be?" Dean asked. John gave a weak smile.

"I don't want to do this either," he told Dean, "But I want him to be safe."

"Me too," Dean agreed, an uncomfortable feeling was dancing around his gut, "Tell him to forget about applying to college."

John nodded, "I just want to ask him something first," he replied, and then glanced to Sam through the rear-view mirror, "Sam, tell me why you want to go to college."

"I want to be safe," Sam answered.

John swallowed, eyes darting back to the road, "I want you to be safe to, kiddo," he answered quietly, he took a deep breath, "Sam, I want you to forget about applying to college."

Sam didn't answer. He barely moved in the back seat.

"Did it work?" Dean asked, a little surprised at the scratchiness in his voice, the feeling in his gut grew heavier.

"I think so," John replied, voice laced with guilt. He cleared his throat and sped down the highway.

* * *

 **So this extended to a four-part story. I swear it won't get any longer. I'll post the final chapter in a couple of days (I promise because it's actually finished)**

 **Update: I've re-read the ending and I think it's rushed so there'll be more than four chapters. I swear this fic has had the most extensions of any story.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings: plenty of blood, suicide attempt (sort of), way too much angst for one chapter.**

* * *

Bobby Singer was waiting for them on the rickety porch of his house. At the sight of them he scratched his beard and adjusted the cap he constantly wore on his head.

John pulled the Impala into the Salvaged yard and Bobby was at Dean's window before the keys were out of the ignition. Dean climbed out of the car and let the door fall shut, he and Bobby stared at each other for a moment.

A smile broke out on Bobby's face, "It's been a while, kid," he exclaimed, yanking Dean into a hug. Dean gasped at the sheer force of the embrace; it had indeed been a long time. The last time Dean remembered seeing Bobby he'd been chasing their father off his property with a shotgun.

Dean grinned into the old man's shoulder and squeezed back. "It's good to see you, Bobby," he replied after he'd taken a step back, he glanced over his shoulder to Sam who was still sitting in the back seat, "It's really good to see you, Bobby, seriously."

Bobby followed Dean's gaze, "You'd best bring him inside," Bobby all but ordered John, barely giving him a second glance. He headed towards the house, not waiting for John to answer.

Sam left the car door open on his way out, Dean had been ready for that and he shut it behind him as he followed their father up the porch steps. Dean worried Sam would trip, he didn't look down at his feet to see where he was going, he only stared aimlessly ahead and limped along, his jeans sticking to the cuts on his knees.

John had ordered Sam to sit on Bobby's old moth-eaten couch; the same one Sam and Dean had spent their childhood watching cartoons on whenever they would stay at the salvage yard. He glanced around the room, appreciating that nothing had changed in the years he'd been away. Books piled up around the room, all ancient and well-used with peeling covers and yellowing pages.

Normally Sam would be flicking through the stacks, asking Bobby a million questions a minute about _The Pack Habits of Werewolves_ , ignoring Bobby when the old man snapped at him, usually with a fond smile, to get his 'grubby mitts' off of his stuff. But Sam just sat there, staring blankly, like he had done for the past couple of days.

Bobby eyed the boy for a good minute then he snapped his fingers in front of his face, as Dean had expected there was no reaction. Bobby moved over to his kitchen and pulled out a rusty box from one of the cupboards. He came back to the room and opened it to reveal a collection of medical supplies. He pulled out a small hammer, similar to the ones found in doctor's offices.

"I've already tested this stuff," John interrupted. Bobby ignored him and frowned at the sight of Sam's scraped knees.

"What happened here?" He asked.

"He walked in front of a van so I pushed him out of the way and he scratched himself up," Dean answered, shrugging a little awkwardly. Bobby muttered something which sounded like 'idjits' under his breath and placed the hammer back in the box, exchanging it for anti-septic wipes. He cleaned Sam's knee up the. Went back to retrieve the hammer, "A little tap won't hurt him too much," he muttered, and he looked up to the boy in front of him.

"This kid grew, huh?" he mused and tapped Sam's knee with the tool. Sam's leg jerked slightly.

"Natural reflex is still there," Bobby muttered to himself. He rested Sam's leg back down and leaned up to look in his eyes, flicking a penlight at each pupil, "Normal reaction to light…" he mumbled. Bobby leaned back a bit and tilted Sam's head, Sam's eyes just stayed locked forward.

"It's odd," Bobby went on, Dean wasn't sure if he was actually talking to anyone, "His eyes seem…"

"Dead?" Dean supplied, "Like no one's home. Like a zombie. Like the light has gone out of them."

Bobby nodded, "I can't tell you if he's awake in there. I sure hope he's not."

"Can you do anything?" John asked impatiently. Bobby scowled at him then turned back to Sam.

"I found a spell before you got here," he grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk, "Hopefully it might be able to wake Sam up, but it won't break the curse."

Bobby held the sheet out in front of him and cleared his throat; he began chanting something in a language Dean had never heard of, it seemed to roll of the tongue in a slippery dialect before coming to guttural stops midsentence. Dean grimaced at the sound of it.

When Bobby was done he lit a match and held it a safe distance from Sam's face, and then he blew it out. There was no gust of wind or shuddering chill, no sinister whisper or flash of lights. There was no indication that a spell had been cast.

"Did it work?" Dean asked hesitantly. Bobby had a disappointed look on his face, but nevertheless he went to Sam and tried to rouse him. Sam didn't react in any way and Bobby looked like he'd expected it.

"This is strong magic," Bobby observed, tossing the match into nearby trash can, "He can't do a single thing without being told to, and by John Winchester, no less." Bobby sighed, "You said the witch used a powder?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, stepping forward, eager to do something, "It was shiny and black, she blew it into his face and said something… I don't remember what. The powder disappeared though, there wasn't a trace on him."

Bobby scratched his beard, thinking. "Did you not bring some of it with you? Like the jar she kept it in?" he asked.

"Don't you think we would have done that if we could?" John snapped.

Bobby scowled, "I'm sorry if I have a different impression of you these days, John. I can honestly say I don't know what's going on in that head of yours."

"Woah, guys!" Dean interrupted before either of them could speak up again, John was already balling his fists and Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. "You can cat fight all you want _after_ we fix Sammy."

Bobby and John gave each other a distasteful look then grimaced and nodded, both clearly embarrassed at their behaviour.

"I, er, I've got some books for you to look at," Bobby said, stepping away awkwardly to rummage through the stacks, "It sounds like voodoo to me, nasty black magic. Since you guys were there you should read through these and tell me what sounds most familiar," he dropped a stack of books on the desk.

Dean gave Sam another check, the boy was still sitting on the sofa, looking completely oblivious to what was going on around him. He reluctantly went over to the desk where John and Bobby were sorting through books. Dean pulled up two extra chairs for himself and John and they all gathered around the table and got to work.

Bobby dumped a book thicker than both of Dean's fists put together on the table in front of him, a cloud of dust blew up from the impact and Dean coughed.

"Read up," Bobby ordered, sending Dean an amused smile. Dean groaned and turned the first page of _A Brief History of Voodoo and Black Magic._

Hours passed and Dean was about ready to face-plant into the book he had laid out in front of him. Time had ticked by slowly as the three of them read through Bobby's old texts until it grew dark outside. John had been hopelessly flicking through pages for the past hour whereas Bobby had been scribbling notes and marking pages. John had always been more of a hunter than a researcher.

Dean turned another page, barely halfway through the book, and he forgot to breathe for a moment when he came across a page which described something very familiar.

"Hey," he caught the others' attention, sitting up in his chair, "I think this is it. It mentions black powder… blowing it into someone's face is supposed to mean…" Dean squinted at the page, "Giving your own air to the other to make a connection. Maybe that's how the spell-caster makes sure they also have power over the victim."

He glanced back at Sam who still hadn't moved a muscle, Dean felt relieved that he'd managed to remain unharmed. He wouldn't put it past Sam to get into trouble from just sitting on Bobby's couch.

Bobby nodded, gesturing for the book. Dean handed it over, arms straining under the weight of it.

"The incantation changes," Bobby read, eyes flicking across the page, "It depends who they're handing the reins over to," he looked up, "So, since your dad has control over Sam the witch would have had to mention that in the spell. It's a very specific incantation, takes someone powerful to do it properly."

"Does it say how to get rid of it?" Dean asked tiredly, rubbing his eyes. He slouched back into his chair and glanced at Sam over the shoulder, a small sense of relief went through him at the sight of him still being there.

"The witch who cast it can undo it," Bobby said with a sigh, Dean turned back to him, "But so can the person who has control over the victim's will," his eyes flicked over to John.

"She said that," Dean acknowledged, "She said dad has to appreciate Sam."

"Which I do," John cut in. Bobby snorted.

"John, I know you love your kids but…" he cut himself off as John's face grew redder, "I'm just saying that there has to be a point to it. I don't think she'd say something like that if she didn't mean it."

"Witches lie," Dean pointed out, then frowned, "But she seemed sincere to me. I think she actually thought she was doing people favours."

"Because she's cracked," John argued. Dean shrugged, he didn't disagree with him there.

"Cracked or not," Bobby interrupted, "She's the one holding the cards here if we can't figure out a counter spell."

"And what spell would that be?" John asked darkly. Bobby's moustache twitched, clearly trying to keep his temper for the boys' sake.

"Well, we can keep searching for it," Dean agreed, "But I need some caffeine right now or I'm going to keel over."

John and Bobby nodded their heads to indicate they also needed a cup of coffee, barely looking up from the books and papers in front of them.

Dean pushed out from the desk and got to his feet, stretching. He blinked sleepily a couple of times and looked over to the couch, something which had become a habit throughout the night. He froze when he noticed his little brother was no longer sitting where they'd left him.

"Dad," Dean snapped urgently, "Sam's gone."

Dean was striding towards the kitchen as Bobby and John got to their feet.

"I just saw him," Dean insisted, "He was right there only a moment ago."

"He can't go anywhere without me telling him," John said, panicked. Suddenly, he froze, eyes widening "She's here."

Dean felt the breath go out of him. He hurried into the kitchen, looking around frantically. He stopped, staring at the open cutlery drawer; a few spoons and forks were strewn clumsily on the floor beneath it. Dean didn't understand how none of them had heard the clatter.

"We have to find him. Now!" Dean yelled, already dashing up the stairs, the back door slammed shut behind Bobby, Dean could hear the old man calling for Sam and loading his shotgun. John's footsteps echoed as he descended into the basement.

Bobby's house was large, there were a lot of rooms upstairs, most of which stored more books. Dean had always wondered when he was younger why Bobby would need such a big house, when he'd asked his father John had said, 'Everyone gets into the life one way or another'. At the time Dean had assumed that meant something bad had happened but he never thought much further than that.

In the frantic moments he searched for his brother he couldn't help the thoughts popping into his head that Bobby might have had a family once.

He shook the thoughts from his head and rounded into the first room; it was dusty and dark, two empty single beds were up against opposite walls. This had been the room Sam and Dean used to stay in when John and Bobby had been on good terms. It looked like it hadn't been used since their last visit, the beds were made, the blankets untouched, a layer of dust had gathered on the chest of drawers like they hadn't been opened in a long time.

Once, when Sam and Dean were children, and well before Sam ever knew anything about the supernatural world, their father would leave them at Bobby's for weeks at a time. Dean admitted that those weeks had been some of the best of his childhood; Bobby cooked them dinner every night, he took them to the park to throw a ball around, he let Dean help him work on the cars. It was the closest to normal either of them had ever been.

During a particularly cold winter, Sam and Dean had been playing hide-and-seek. Dean let Sam hide first, the kid had practically begged him, obviously he'd thought he'd had the best hiding spot. Dean had covered his eyes and counted, listening to the sound of his six year old brother's feet scampering away.

Dean had been confident that Sam would be easy to find, but the time it took to find him kept getting longer and longer, and Dean grew more and more worried. Bobby had joined the search and they'd called for Sam to come out; the game was over now. Sam hadn't answered. The panic grew when they noticed the back door was open, letting a heavy fall of snow into the hallway.

Dean had been so sure Sam had run out to hide in the junk yard and was no doubt hypothermic at that point. When Dean had been sent to get blankets, in case Sam was outside, he'd found his little brother fast asleep, curled up in the linen closet.

Dean checked the whole room, even under the beds, and found nothing. He went to the old wooden door in the corner; the linen closet. Sam wasn't there, Dean knew he wouldn't be, but the memory was so _Sam_ , he hoped he might find his little brother there.

He rushed back into the hallway and he could hear the John and Bobby were back downstairs again, talking urgently to one another, not arguing. They had more important things to worry about than their relationship problems.

Dean noticed one closed door at the end of the hall, a sliver of light peeked through the crack beneath it. As a trained hunter Dean ought to have moved stealthily towards the door, he should have had his gun raised and ready to fire if the need arose. He should have remembered everything his dad had taught him. But this was _Sam._ This wasn't some middle-class family with a haunted bathroom, or a few idiotic campers who insisted on checking out the source of the noise. This was Dean's little brother, and when Dean's little brother was in danger all reasonable thought went right out the window.

With only _Sam_ on his mind Dean threw himself at the door, rattling it in its hinges, splintering the wood, as he yanked at the brass handle and barrelled into the room.

It was one of the few empty rooms in the house, one of the rooms Dean had rarely been in. There were no towers of books or stacks of papers, no dusty or forgotten furniture, just a few cardboard boxes shoved against the far wall and an antique iron chandelier which was draped in cobwebs.

But the light was switched on, casting a dim light through the room, causing shadows to rise up from all corners. Sam was in the centre of the room, shoulders slumped, arms hanging limply by is sides as he stared dazedly, looking almost mesmerised, at the red-headed witch who had been staring back until Dean had burst into the room.

"Get away from him!" Dean ordered, the words came out close to a scream. His gun was already in his hands, pointing at the witches head.

She raised an eyebrow, though it wasn't amused as it had been in the past, she looked slightly more serious this time, almost worried. Something frightened her and it wasn't the gun pointed at her head.

She waved her hand and Dean's weapon flew out of his grip, with another flick of her wrist he was launched back, body connecting painfully with the wall where he stayed pinned up like hunting trophy.

"I don't have time for this," She sighed, turning back to Sam, her long red hair swished behind her. It was dark and tangled, full of leaves and broken twigs.

When she had looked at Dean her eyes had been dark, almost impossibly black, the skin around her eyes had been a shadow of purple. When she looked at Sam there was a softness there, a light blue in her irises, a sad crinkle to her forehead. She stroked Sam's cheek in a gentle way which made Dean want to throw up.

"Leave him alone," he cried, trying to yank himself free, he was stuck and Sam was in danger.

Dean could hear the creak of a floorboard coming from the hallway. He turned his head, with much effort, and saw Bobby and his father stepping lightly towards the room, guns in their hands. Dean caught his father's eye and tried to warn them to be careful, John nodded.

John and Bobby rounded quickly into the room, there was a loud bang as someone's gun went off. John's arm went wide, the bullet hit the chandelier with a loud clang and both of their guns were cast to the other side of the room. There were two heavy grunts as John and Bobby connected with the wall. The three of them struggled against their invisible bonds.

The witch barely paid them any attention; she just stared at Sam with a saddened gaze.

"I did this to teach your father a lesson," she explained to him, the blank look in Sam's eyes indicated he likely didn't hear what she was saying, "It was just a game. Then I realised who and what you were, Sam. I thought it would be best to leave you be, let your father figure out how to break the spell, let you go on with your life," she frowned, "Then I learned the true magnitude of who you are, who you're meant to be. _What_ you're meant to be."

Dean felt his gut twist at the witch's words. "Please," Dean tried to keep his voice cool, "Isn't the villain monologue a little old by now."

The witch flashed him an angry look, silencing him. "Always so cocky, even in the face of danger," she tutted, "I see inside you, boy, you're a scared child. But you know that. You know you're weak."

Dean's nostrils flared and he scowled at her. She ignored him and looked back to Sam. Dean glanced to his side, hoping for help. Bobby and John were still struggling, but Dean could see his father was trying to reach for the inside of his jacket where his second gun was hidden.

"I know what they've done to you, Sam," she went on quietly, "And I am sorry. I have to stop you, and everything you will do one day. I feared the Demon before, but now I accept what will happen to me for doing this, they won't be happy with me," there was a flash of fear in her eyes, "You'll destroy the world, but if you purge the sickness from your veins then maybe you'll have a chance beyond the veil, though I'm half-certain hell has a claim on you."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, struggling harder. There was a sharp glint in the corner of Dean's eye and he looked over to see a steak knife in Sam's hand. He remembered the opened cutlery drawer in the kitchen. He yelled and pulled harder, fear gripping him tight. The witch ignored him and looked down to the knife in Sam's hand.

"Make yourself bleed," she commanded, "Slice your wrists."

There was a second that seemed to stretch out for a long time in which Sam didn't respond, a for that small second Dean thought the spell might be gone. He hoped his brother might be strong enough to save himself.

Dean screamed as Sam brought the blade to his arms and sliced his wrists. John had been shouting for Sam to stop over and over but the boy didn't hear. Blood pulsed from the wound and pooled around his skin, leaking into a puddle on the floor. He moved to the second wrist, his hand shaking slightly as he lost blood, he didn't even flinch as he sliced his second arm. The knife fell to the floor with a clang when he was done.

"Sam!" Dean choked.

The witch stepped back, watching Sam sway slightly. She seemed almost shocked, distracted for a moment. Dean found his limbs able to move further from the wall. There was a yell to Dean's side as John managed to rip himself away for a second, just long enough to draw his gun.

A shot rang out through the room. The witch dropped, a bullet wound leaking red in her temple. Her red hair splayed out, pooling against Sam's blood.

The three of them fell to the ground, the witch's spell died with her. Dean clambered to his feet and ran over just in time to catch Sam when he could no longer hold himself up.

"Sammy," Dean called desperately as he lowered them down. Bobby was there, yanking off his jacket and wrapping it around Sam's bleeding wrists.

"No no no," John fell to his knees at their side, fumbling for Sam's pulse, "He's still with us."

"Sam? Tell me you can hear me," Dean sobbed, the witch was gone, Sam had to be back. Sam just stared blankly ahead.

"It's a curse, Dean," Bobby said, tears gathering in his eyes, "Spells die with the witch, curses stay."

"Please, Sam," John begged, cupping Sam's cheek, his red-stained fingers painted Sam's skin. "You're my boy, my smart boy. You could do anything in the world, and I want you to do that. You still need to do that. I love you, kid, I _need_ you." The words tumbled out frantically, panicked, but so completely sincere.

The lights flickered, the room grew colder and Sam shuddered in Dean's arms, gasping, blinking hard. He shifted his head around weakly, looking at each man's face.

"Sam?" Dean could see the light return to his brother's eyes and he smiled through the tears, "I thought I'd never see you again."

Sam frowned up at him, eyes growing heavy, "D'n?"

The word was barely audible but Dean could read it on Sam's lips. He had a split-second of relief before his brother's eyes fell shut. Dean cried; Sam was going to leave him again.

* * *

 **This is not the end! I know I keep saying there's one more chapter, I think you should just ignore me when I say that from now on, but there is one more chapter!**

 **A third chapter was posted yesterday which was the ending but I quickly deleted it and split it in half. Someone managed to read it before I deleted it and commented that the ending was rushed and they were completely right. I really wanted to finish this story as it's already getting longer than I'd hoped but that reviewer was right that I should finish it properly.**

 **One more to go (hopefully) where we'll deal with the aftermath.**

 **Thank your for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings: mentions of attempted suicide, sad Sammy.**

* * *

It must have been quite a sight, Dean thought, to see Bobby and two of the Winchesters hauling a deathly pale and bloody boy into a waiting room. A woman rocking her feverish child had looked up and gasped, a construction worker nursing his hand had yelped.

The bright, clean lights of the hospital only made Sam look worse. There was no trace of colour in his skin; nothing but dark red dripping a long trail onto the linoleum flooring. The nurse behind the desk had gasped and jumped from her seat. Dean realised that she must have only hesitated for barely a second but it was too long. He shouted at her, he doesn't remember what he said, but she had flinched as she'd made an urgent call.

Doctors and nurses came in from all sides, Dean wondered what they'd been doing if they could just appear when needed. Sam had been pulled from his arms and settled onto a gurney, Dean hadn't let go of him, even if his fingers barely touched Sam's shoulder, he wouldn't let go. He wouldn't let Sam think he was alone.

He'd been pushed back, or pulled away, or both. The point was that Dean wasn't near his little brother anymore, Sam was being wheeled down a corridor and he wasn't allowed to follow. Dean's feet were moving by instinct, blindly stepping in Sam's direction. There was a hand on his shoulder and he stopped, turning to face his father.

"Let them help him, Dean, we can't do anything else for him.

He'd nodded, feeling numb and half awake, like he was stuck in a dream. He didn't realise his hands were shaking until his father grabbed a hold of them to keep him steady. Dean looked down and all he saw was red. Stained fingers; wet and cold and red.

He mostly stumbled to the bathroom to wash Sam's blood from his hands, Bobby followed him quietly. He scrubbed, watching with morbid fascination as the water turned pink. His hands were still red, he scrubbed harder, digging the dry flecks of blood from under his nails. He scrubbed harder. His hands wouldn't be clean.

The next thing he knew he was throwing up into a toilet, Bobby's strong, rough hands were rubbing his back gently, speaking softly in with the most comforting words he could think of. Dean didn't hear any of it; he just heard the witch's voice. _Make yourself bleed._ Sam did.

He spent a few moments sitting on the floor of the cubical trying to breath. Bobby stood quietly in the doorway, giving him some time. He got his breath back and got to his feet, straightening himself out; he flushed the toilet and shouldered his way past Bobby. When he washed his hands again he noticed the blood was all gone.

He looked up, coming face to face with himself; his skin was pale, making the freckles across his nose stand out, his eyes were red and wet, he quickly wiped at them. When he turned back Bobby was still there and he gestured for Dean to go with him. Bobby patted his shoulder as they walked back to the waiting room.

John was waiting by the desk, he swallowed when he saw them. Dean felt his heart stop. John seemed to sense Dean's dread and he hurried forward, shaking his head.

"No, Sam's fine…" he stopped and looked away quickly before looking back to his son, "They're still treating him, he's not…"

 _Not dead._ Dean nodded shakily.

"They want us to go to a different waiting room," he went on, casting a glance around. Most of the people seemed to have minor injuries; something a couple of stitches or a prescription would fix. Most people seemed to be staring at them too, no doubt because they'd witnessed their dramatic entrance.

Dean turned back and nodded, "Sure," his voice was croaky, he cleared his throat, "Where, uh, where?"

John just nodded his head in one direction and mouthed, 'Come one'. They followed a coloured line down the corridor which led to a much smaller waiting room. There weren't as many people waiting but the ones who were either crying, trying not to cry, or had done very recently.

"Mr Winchester?" Dean startled when a nurse approached them.

"Is Sam okay?" John asked immediately. The nurse smiled sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't have any news for you," she said, "I need you to fill out some forms."

She handed John a clipboard of papers and pens. "We'll let you know as soon as we can," she promised. John gave her a dismissive shake of his head and she left.

They took three seats as far from the other people in the room as they could. John sighed and scratched his pen down the list.

"You can use my insurance," Bobby offered, holding out his hand for the pen. John was frozen for a moment, like he'd honestly not thought Bobby would offer. He nodded gratefully and handed the pen over.

Bobby left soon after, promising to return once he'd cleaned up at home. Dean thinks he wanted to give the two of them some space and he was grateful for that. As much as he appreciated everything Bobby had done for them he still needed some time with just his family.

The time they spent together was silent. John gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, Dean followed the hand tick by on the clock opposite, watching each second count away until a few hours had passed.

 _He has to be okay_.

"He's a tough kid, he'll be okay," John assured him, though there was a feeling of dread in his words. Dean startled, he hadn't noticed he'd said anything out loud.

"He said my name," Dean said, "I recognised me."

"He did," John agreed, "I think the spell broke."

Dean nodded, "I think it's because of what you said to him; that you needed him and you wanted him to do what he wanted."

John didn't say anything and at first Dean thought he was ignoring him until he noticed a doctor wearing scrubs striding towards them.

"Samuel Winchester's family?" She asked. The two of them stood up and followed her without another word. The doctor was young, smaller than both Winchesters but she set her shoulders in a way which made it seem like you wouldn't be able to knock her off her feet. She moved with as surety which comforted Dean.

She held a door open for them and walked into an office. They all took seats around an orderly desk.

"My name is Doctor Wells, I've been treating Samuel since he arrived in the ER. Samuel had a very close call," she informed them. Dean was thankful she'd just cut straight to it, "But we managed to keep him with us."

"Sam's okay?" Dean sighed with relief. The doctor's mouth set into a thin line.

"Samuel lost _a lot_ of blood," she said clearly, "This was a very serious suicide attempt."

"He didn't try to kill himself," Dean blurted, John grabbed his shoulder and squeezed hard.

The doctor eyed him for a moment before her expression turned sympathetic, "I understand it can be difficult to understand why a close relative might do something like this."

"He understands," John cut across before Dean could say anything, "He's just a little overwhelmed." He squeezed Dean's shoulder a little tighter and Dean decided to keep his mouth shut.

"Of course," the doctor agreed, "I just wanted to fill you in on Samuel's current condition, as well as what our next steps are towards him making a full recovery, then I'll take you to see him."

Dean's foot began to tap impatiently.

"Sam had lost a lot of blood when he arrived, we managed to give him transfusions. He nicked an artery on one of his arms which we were able to seal, and we've stitched up the wounds. He's receiving fluids and a transfusion right now. We've settle him into the ICU for monitoring."

"Thank you," John said sincerely.

The doctor smiled, "It's my job, you thought quickly to put pressure on the wounds and bring him in so quickly," she said, "Now, I'd like to ask you about what happened. You told us you found Sam at home with his wrists cut?"

Dean glared at his dad, John ignored him and nodded at the doctor.

"Has Sam had a history of mental illness?"

"No," John said firmly. The doctor wrote something down.

"Did he show any signs that he was planning to commit suicide such as talking about death, giving away personal possessions, writing a suicide note? Anything like that?"

"No," John answered.

"Do you know of any mental illness in the family?"

"No."

"Are you saying Sam made an attempt on his life without any sort of warning signs?" she asked, looking up at them.

"Yes," John said calmly.

The doctor nodded, still writing, "Sometimes it can be hard to tell. Some suicide attempts are a cry for help, usually there are signs. Other attempts, when a person is completely set on it, they will do it, they won't let anyone stop them. I believe Sam wasn't trying to ask for help."

Dean grit his teeth, telling the truth wouldn't help. There was no other explanation to give the doctors other than that Sam had tried to kill himself.

"Sam will stay here for a couple of days for observation and rest; he will be on suicide watch which means he won't be alone for even a second. I'll take you to see him in a few moments but first I'd like to discuss treatment for Sam after he's been discharged from the hospital."

"Treatment?" Dean asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"We need to know what drove Sam to attempt to kill himself," the doctor said, "We need to diagnose him and understand what his condition is."

"Sam's not crazy," Dean scoffed.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Of course not," she said, "But what he is, is very sick. He'll talk with one of our psychiatrist when he's able to, then we'll discuss if he should be moved to another hospital for in-patient treatment."

"Sam's not going to a nuthouse," Dean growled.

" _Psychiatric ward_ ," Doctor Wells corrected, "And I didn't say that, I said we'd discuss it. We'll be able to figure out our best option once he wakes up and can be evaluated. It may turn out that Sam can return home, so long as he sees a therapist regularly. Do you understand?"

"We understand," John was quick to stop Dean before he even had a chance to speak.

"Good," Wells said, satisfied. She pushed out her chair and got to her feet, "If you'll follow me I'll take you to Samuel."

Sam's room was private, someone was situated by the door to guard it, there was even a nurse sitting at his bedside, Dean could see her back through the window. There was no way Sam could off himself with this kind of security even if he wanted to.

"He's still unconscious," the doctor told them, stopping just outside the door. Dean had to use all his energy to keep himself from shoving the doctor aside so he could go in. "It's likely he won't wake up for a while yet, inform a member of staff immediately if he does."

John and Dean nodded. The doctor held the door open and indicated for the nurse to leave; she slipped by them with a pitying look on her face.

To say that Sam looked horrible would be an understatement. Sam looked dead, if it weren't for the beep of the heart monitor Dean would have believed he was, he was whiter than the crisp hospital sheets he was in, his lips were bloodless and dry, his eyes were dark and bruised, his hair was a mess, his cheeks seemed sunken, and his wrists… Dean was just thankful that the doctors had bandaged them up so tightly.

"Oh, Sammy…" Dean went over to the empty chair and sat down. He didn't touch Sam, he didn't dare. John pulled another chair over to the other side of the bed and gently slipped his hand into Sam's hand, not moving it from where it rested on the sheets.

"He'll be okay, Dean," John promised, sounding surer than he had the last time.

"Not if they ship him off," Dean said bitterly, "How could you do that, just let the doctor think Sam did this to himself?"

"What else could I have said?" John argued, "Should I have told them that Sam was cursed to be obedient and he slit his wrists because a witch _told_ him to?"

Dean didn't answer, just dropped his shoulders and fell back into the chair. He looked at Sam, wondering how he managed to look so young after being so close to death, his features were smooth under the nasal cannula, soft and far too white.

"Do you think he'll remember?" John asked suddenly.

Dean shrugged. "I hope not… but I don't think it would be a picnic to wake up on suicide watch with no memory of how you got there. This whole situation is screwed to hell."

"However he is when he wakes up, we'll look after him."

"Always do," Dean said under his breath.

They were allowed to stay the night, which wasn't usual, but it seemed Sam's situation was urgent enough that his family could stay past visiting hours. John and Dean waited for him to wake up but Sam just slept. Dean was determined to be there when Sam woke up but it had been a long time since Dean had rested properly and he couldn't stop his eyes from drooping shut.

Dean wasn't sure what woke him in the early hours of the morning; maybe it was the uncomfortable position he was in in the chair. It was more likely his instinct that jolted him awake from a dreamless sleep because when he opened his eyes he found two more staring tiredly back at him.

"Sam?" Dean whispered, relieved.

Sam blinked heavily a couple of times and smiled at him, though it seemed to take a lot of energy to do so, and he quickly fell back to sleep. Dean found himself more awake and got up for a break. John was asleep in his chair, his head falling back in way Dean was sure would hurt in the morning.

Not much had changed when he returned with a can of coke and a bag of M&Ms a few short minutes later. He didn't notice falling asleep that time.

When Dean woke up again, he found Sam staring at him with a puzzled look on his pallid face. Dean jumped up a little in his seat and leaned forward.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean whispered, not wanting to wake their father so he would have a chance to be alone with Sam.

"Hi," Sam croaked back, sighing tiredly.

"Do you remember what happened?" Dean asked.

Sam's face scrunched up for a moment, "M'not sure," he said quietly, "Hospital?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, "You gave us a scare."

"Sorry," Sam whispered.

"Don't apologise," Dean said, sounding snappier than he meant to, "Just remember that this wasn't your fault?"

"Wha'?" Sam frowned and glanced around, he froze when he saw his bandaged wrists. He tried to lift them, which resulted in a hiss of pain.

"You okay?" Dean asked worriedly. Sam shook his head and tried to shift his arms away from Dean.

"It wasn't a dream," Sam muttered miserably, "I thought…" He took a deep breath and frowned again, the same way he did when he was figuring out a particularly difficult puzzle. "Witch… a spell… being stuck…" he frowned again, "Red hair… blood."

Sam looked down at his hands, "My blood," he said, remembering.

"You were awake the whole time?" Dean said sadly.

Sam nodded tiredly. "Some," he mumbled, "It was foggy… like a dream that was too real. I couldn't move… but I could barely think about what that meant."

"You're okay now," Dean promised, "The spell's gone, so is the witch."

Sam nodded but kept his eyes locked on his wrists. There was a look on his face which Dean hadn't seen before, or maybe he had and it had just been a long time. Sam's eyes were heavy and tired, but somehow managed to be wide at the same time. It was the look of a person who'd seen something unimaginably horrible.

Dean didn't want to push Sam so soon after waking up.

"Are you tired?" he asked, trying to focus the conversation on something else, "You should sleep. Or if you're hungry I can get you something good, not that crappy hospital food."

Sam's lip curled slightly, like smiling any more would have taken too much energy. "I've been sleeping long enough," he said, "And I'm not hungry."

Dean watched him for a moment; Sam barely moved and for Dean it was too reminiscent of when Sam had been cursed. He cleared his throat, "That's fine. But I'll make sure you eat something later, you hear me?"

Sam gave a small huff, which almost sounded like ' _Whatever'_.

"Sam?" John's voice came from the other side of the bed and he sat up, eyes shining slightly as he smiled at the sight of Sam awake. "Thank God."

Sam's mouth twitched awkwardly and he ducked his head even further. John went to take Sam's hand but Sam carefully manoeuvred it onto his lap.

"Aren't you supposed to get a doctor or something?" he said quietly, not looking at either of them, "I mean, now that I'm awake… they'll want to do check-ups."

John and Dean looked at each other, both feeling equally as helpless. John got to his feet.

"I'll let someone know you're awake," he said. He stopped in the doorway for a moment, watching Sam, like he hoped Sam might say something. When he didn't, John left.

"Sam, you know none of this is your fault?" Dean asked.

"Yes, Dean," Sam bit back, "Stop saying that. I hadn't even thought about it."

"Sam, I can tell something_"

"Good morning," Doctor Wells stepped into the room, she smiled at Sam, "I'm glad to see you awake."

Sam nodded absently and the doctor went ahead with the check-up. When she went to carefully remove the bandages from his wrists Sam jerked them away.

He flushed, as much as he was able to, and said, "Sorry… you can… I just…"

He looked at John and Dean out of the corner of his eye. The doctor seemed to understand. "Would you like your brother and father to leave the room?" She asked.

Sam nodded.

Dean opened his mouth to protest but John was already dragging him from the room. He shut the door behind them and ushered Dean down the corridor.

"He needs space," John said, "And time."

"He knows, doesn't he?"

John looked at him, puzzled.

"He remembers that we let him forget about college," Dean explained, "No wonder he's mad at us."

John stopped and sighed, "You really think so?"

"What else could it be?" Dean argued. John nodded his agreement.

"What did I do?" John said miserably, "God, I can be such an ass at times."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, his mouth opened and closed. John laughed at his expression.

"Yeah, I know I can be… difficult sometimes," John assured him, "I know that when I get myself focused on something I find it hard to think about anything else."

Dean shrugged, "Only a little bit."

"Trying to spare my feelings?" John smirked. He sighed again and looked at Dean seriously. "When your mother… when she passed, I was terrified of losing you and your brother. I thought I had to avenge her to keep you safe, to stop that thing coming for you too, I thought I had to get you ready in case it did… all I was doing was putting you in the line of fire, and Sam got hit."

Dean was silent for a moment. "You always did your best," Dean said.

John gave a small smile; like he appreciated the words but he didn't quite believe them. "Let's get some coffee then head back to Sam."

The returned to Sam's room with two cups of hot, strong coffee and a candy bar for Sam. The doctor was gone but a nurse was sitting with him. Sam had curled up onto his side, facing away from the nurse.

"Doctor Wells wants to talk with you, Mr Winchester," the nurse said when she noticed them. She got to her feet and walked over to them. "He's not doing very well, he won't really talk to anyone, barely looks at them," she said quietly so Sam wouldn't hear, "But that's expected with… situations like Sam's."

"Right," Dean said tightly.

"I'll get the doctor for you," she hurried out the door.

Dean waited for her to go before he approached Sam's bed. He dropped quietly into the chair and cleared his throat before he spoke.

"I really sorry, kiddo," he said, "But we just wanted you to be safe, you know?"

Sam shifted a little under the blanket but he didn't look at him.

"I know you want to go to college_"

Sam sat up and squinted at him, "College?"

"Yeah… applying for college… we're sorry," Dean insisted. He sat still and waited for Sam to unleash hell.

"Dean," Sam said slowly, like Dean was an idiot, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean frowned and shared a glance with their dad. He turned back to Sam. "What do you mean?"

Sam scowled. "I mean I have no idea what you're talking about," he hissed, "Why are you suddenly blabbing on about college?"

Dean's mouth dropped open. "What about the brochures?" he asked, eyeing Sam carefully.

"What brochures?" Sam groaned, flopping back against the pillows, "Dean, I'm not going to college… why did you think so?"

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and took and deep breath. It turned out some commands stuck even long after the curse was gone. Sam had no memory of his desire to apply for college.

"No reason," Dean said, "Just ignore me… I'm tired is all."

Sam glared at him for a moment longer before rolling back over to face the wall. Dean gulped, if Sam didn't know they'd made him forget about college then why was he so mad at them?

* * *

 **This is also not the end. Every time I go back to edit my writing I end up adding so much more than I expected. There should only be one chapter after this, but who knows?**

 **I'm really determined to finish this story before I continue others so if you read my other fics please be patient, I will get back to them soon.**

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing the last chapter! I love reading your reviews, they really motivate me to write :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings: depression, mention of attempted suicide, angst.**

* * *

Sam had barely said a word. He seemed to spend most of his time sleeping or pretending to sleep. Dean was sitting in the chair by Sam's bed, resting his cheek on the heel of his hand as he watched his brother who had tucked himself under the hospital blankets.

They'd been at the hospital for a couple of days and Sam was expected to be discharged the next day, where he went when he was released was still being decided. John had disappeared with the doctor a while ago to discuss whether or not Sam should be committed. Of course, John would never allow that to happen, but with the way Sam had been behaving since he woke up it seemed the doctor would need more persuading.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Dean suggested, mostly in an attempt to break the silence in the room. There was a soft shrug under the covers. "Just down the hall?" Dean pressed, "You must want to get out of that bed."

Sam shifted in the bed, rolling over to face Dean. He still couldn't quite look him in the eye. Dean raised an eyebrow and smiled gently.

"What do you say?"

Sam's mouth twisted as he contemplated it. "Just down the hall?" he asked, sounding a little sceptical, as if Dean might somehow trick him into a hike.

"Less than that if you want it," Dean promised, smiling encouragingly. Sam bit his lip, thinking again. Finally, after almost a minute, he nodded.

Dean got his feet and waited patiently for Sam to kick the blankets off his legs. Sam slowly swung around until his feet were touching the floor, he stayed there for a long moment.

"You need a hand?" Dean offered, already stepping forward, a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam shrugged it off.

"No, I'm okay," he said quietly, "Thanks," he added as an afterthought. He carefully used the IV pole to pull himself to standing. He closed his eyes, the colour leaked out of his face, and he clutched tighter on the pole. Dean had his arms out, ready to catch Sam in case he fell.

Sam took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Let's go," he said, taking small step towards the door, pulling the IV along with him. Dean hurried ahead and held the door open for him, trying very hard not to stare at the bandages wrapped around his little brother's wrists.

The halls were a little calmer in the ICU, despite what Dean would have thought, he'd only once seen doctors and nurses flocking by the window. A nurse at the desk looked up when Dean closed the door behind them, her eyes widened.

"We're just going for a walk," Dean told her, ghosting a hand protectively over Sam's shoulder, "Just down the hall. You'll be able to see us the whole time."

The nurse nodded and smiled at Sam. She sat back behind the desk and resumed her work, though she occasionally cast glances at the brothers. Sam seemed to be leading them, shuffling along with a weary slump in his posture.

Sam didn't say a word, probably concentrating too hard and putting one foot in front of the other. Dean spotted a vending machine a few steps ahead and he gently prodded Sam to get his attention.

"You want candy?" he wiggled his brows, trying to sell the idea. Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm buying, Sammy," Dean added, grinning.

"Fine," Sam groaned, as if Dean had been hounding him about it, "As long as you're paying."

Sam leaned on the vending machine and sighed tiredly, gazing uninterestedly at the contents.

"I'm getting M&Ms, what about you?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged, still staring absently at the candy inside the machine. "Kit Kat?" Dean prompted, "You like those, right?"

"I guess," Sam mumbled. Dean sighed.

"Are you gonna talk to me about it?" he asked.

"About what?" Sam muttered.

"Sammy, you're barely eating, you're barely talking," Dean pointed out, "This isn't like you. Talk to me."

"Nothing to talk about," Sam said, shrugging.

"There is," Dean argued, slotting the coins into the machine, "And it's okay if you don't want to talk about it right now, but you're going to have to. Is it about the witch?"

Sam twitched, like he was just holding back from full-on flinching.

"It is?" Dean guessed. Sam looked away, back down the hall towards his room. Dean sighed, "Okay, let's head back before you keel over."

When they got back to the room, Sam sank onto the bed with a thankful groan. Dean plumped up the pillows and pushed Sam into them, then he pulled the covers over his legs and up to his waist.

"You gonna read me a bedtime story too?" Sam teased. Dean grinned, this was the first time Sam had joked, or acted even remotely _Sam,_ since he woke up.

"Only if you want one, princess," Dean answered. Sam snorted, shifting himself into a more comfortable position. Dean placed the Kit Kat into his hand without a word, giving Sam a look, daring him to ignore it. Sam stared at the candy bar, and then shot Dean an unamused glance.

He sighed, having given up, or not having the energy to argue. His fingers fumbled at the wrapper, losing grip and slipping off the plastic. He sighed in frustration and tried again, weakly tugging at the candy wrapper. After a moment of trying to open the candy bar he let go and dropped back into the pillows. Dean silently stepped forward and opened the chocolate, placing it back in Sam's grip.

Sam swallowed and brought it to his lips, taking a small bite. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment and swallowed heavily.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

"'Bout what?" Dean said through a mouthful of M&Ms.

"I've been a bit… you know?" Sam said sheepishly, "I haven't been fair to you or dad."

Dean nodded gently, encouragingly. "You wanna talk about it?"

Sam squirmed a little under the blanket, bringing his wrists to his lap. He stared at them with a mixed expression; disgust, shame and mourning.

"I was awake the whole time," Sam began, "But everything was foggy, like my thoughts got jumbled, you know?"

Dean didn't know, but he nodded anyway.

"I remember seeing and hearing you, but I couldn't move," Sam went on, "It was hard to keep hold of one thought, but I still cried out. It was like being possessed," he paused thoughtfully, then grimaced, "Possessed by _dad_."

"What else do you remember?" Dean asked carefully.

"I remember walking in front of a van and not being able to stop myself," Sam said, glancing at Dean, "Thanks for pushing me out the way."

"Anytime."

Sam hitched a breath, "And… and I remember the witch," he blinked a couple of times, eyes growing misty, "She spoke to me… she said," Sam cut himself of and released a shuddering sigh, "And I remember cutting my own wrists, I remember how painful it was and I couldn't even scream."

A tear slipped down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away. "And I feel like something's wrong," he whispered, "Like something isn't right and I don't know what it could be."

Dean watched his little brother's despair and felt the guilt twisting inside of him.

"Sammy," Dean said, "There's something I need to_"

The door opened, John and Dr Wells stepped in. Sam hastily wiped his eyes. The doctor smiled at him.

"How are you feeling, Samuel?" she asked, using a softer voice than she ever used with John or Dean, "It's good to hear you went for a walk."

"Yeah," Sam smiled shyly, "Dean took me. He bought me a Kit Kat."

"That's good," the doctor praised. Her face turned serious and she took a seat by Sam's bed, "I've spoken to both you and your father and I think it would be best to let you go home with your family."

Sam's shoulders relaxed and he let out a sigh of relief.

"We'll be keeping you here for the rest of the day, maybe even the night, then we'll let you go," she said, "I'm referring you to another doctor who you will see weekly."

"A therapist," Sam pointed out glumly.

"Someone to talk to," Well's corrected, "They'll help you understand the way you feel, and why you did what you did."

Sam's eyes flicked away awkwardly, his numb fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

"I will be seeing you for a few weeks to check how your wounds are healing; I'll also be keeping in contact with the therapist to see how things are going."

Sam nodded, clearly wishing the doctor would leave.

"I'll leave you to spend time with your family," she said as she got to her feet, clearly sensing Sam's discomfort, "If you need anything, make sure you get your brother or father to get a nurse."

She smiled reassuringly and left the room.

They spent most of their day in there, Sam was still too tired to do much else, but Dean made sure he got his legs moving a little. They played cards and ate vending machine snacks. When a nurse brought Sam his lunch, Sam's mouth had curled in distaste. John had run off into town to find some food Sam actually liked.

Dean was munching on a cheeseburger, feeling a lot hungrier than he'd realised he'd been. Sam was happily eating a chicken salad, washing it down with a coke. John had left just after he'd dropped off the food, saying he had some things to take care of.

"Dean," Sam spoke up, putting his fork down.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean asked around a mouth full of meat and bread.

"Before, you said you had to tell me something," Sam said carefully, like he already had an answer he was hopeful for, "What was it?"

Dean swallowed. Sam deserved the truth, Dean saw the hopeful look of his little brother's face, like he was waiting for Dean to do something life-changing. Sam was always too observant. That's what Dean had- something to change his brother's life. If he told Sam the truth then Sam could go to college, like he wanted, but he would also know what John and Dean had done to him. They would lose him forever.

And the witch, Dean had heard what she'd said. _I'm half-certain hell has a claim on you_. The witch had been a lot of things; psycho, nuts, insane, but she hadn't been a liar. If Sam leaves then he'll be in danger. Demons could be after him. The Demon could be after him.

"Dean?" Sam called again, frowning at him. Dean cleared his throat, realising he'd not answered.

"I, uh, I wanted you to know that I heard what the witch said to you," Dean said, his throat tightening a little. Sam's face went whiter, if that was possible.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam whispered into his lap.

Dean frowned. "Sammy? Why are you sorry?" Sam didn't answer. "I wanted to tell you that the witch was a liar. Whatever she said to you was bull."

Sam shrugged.

"I mean it, kiddo," Dean insisted, "Don't listen to whatever wackadoo she was spouting. You're you, okay? No one's got any claim on you… 'cept me."

That earned a small smile out of Sam, he glanced up at Dean and pushed his hair out of his eyes, for the first time in days. Sam didn't ask about it again, probably because he still fell asleep mid-conversation, but he was better. And to Dean, that was all that mattered.

* * *

The morning of Sam's release, most of the staff seemed sad, or worried, to see Sam go. Sam, however, was very pleased to see himself go, no doubt sick of the pitying looks and the way everyone approached him like he was a scared animal.

He was wheeled to the exit, as was policy, but Sam wouldn't have managed the journey on foot anyway. The orderly let Sam out of the chair and returned to the hospital, wishing the Winchesters luck.

"Freedom!" Sam crowed once they were alone, though there was a lack of enthusiasm or energy to it, or to the small smile on his face.

"Come on, kiddo," John said, opening the back door of the Impala, "Let's get you back to Bobby's and into bed."

Dean helped Sam into the seat, a gesture that was returned with an annoyed swat.

"I can _get in a car_ by myself, Dean," Sam whined, and plonked himself into the back seat.

Bobby was waiting for them on his porch, like usual, his head perked up when the Impala rolled into the yard and he got to his feet. Sam got out of the Impala all by himself, shrugging off Dean's attempts to support him to the house.

"I'm _fine_ ," Sam huffed exasperatedly, "I'll be running marathons by next week."

"Not if I can help it," Dean muttered under his breath.

Bobby greeted Sam with a hug, grabbing him tight as he buried his nose in the boy's hair. Dean sometimes notices the way Bobby looks at them; the same way John does.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam greeted. Bobby smiled and patted Sam's shoulder.

"It's good to see you up and about," he said, "Of your own free will."

Sam shrugged uncomfortably and ducked away towards the house. Bobby, John and Dean each shared a look; none of them said a word, not even once Sam was out of ear-shot. They headed inside, dropping Sam's bag on the study floor. Bobby had brought Sam's things to the hospital for them so the boy would have a change of clothes. When Sam had complained that he was cold Dean had fetched him a jumper, finding the college brochures still buried at the bottom of the bag. He'd hastily removed them.

"Sammy?" Dean called.

"I'm just upstairs," Sam called from the second floor, sounding irritated.

"Just checking," Dean hollered back, "Do you want some food?"

"No."

"Well, tough," Dean yelled, "Bobby's making lunch and you're eating every bite."

There was no answer. "He's just huffing because he's not getting what he wants," Dean said to Bobby by way of explanation. Bobby smiled fondly and headed into the kitchen.

"You went all out, huh?" Dean commented once he caught sight of the groceries sitting on the kitchen counter. He peered inside one of the bags, there were countless fruits and vegetables; food Sam would like.

"I've got guests," Bobby shrugged, slicing a large loaf of fresh bread, "And I'll be damned if that kid's eating something out of a tin."

Dean grinned, "Thanks, Bobby."

Lunch was impressive, though that wasn't difficult if you considered the Winchester's lifestyle. Bobby had made sandwiches; fresh bread filled with home-cooked chicken and ham, sliced tomatoes, lettuce and cucumber. He'd even bought bottles of cola and bags of Sam's favourite type of potato chips. Dean hadn't realised how much Bobby knew about them.

"I'll go get him," Dean offered, already out of the kitchen, "He might be sleeping."

Dean bounced up the stairs and into the first spare room; his and Sam's old room. Both bed were made and, more importantly, empty. Dean couldn't help the panic that rose in his chest, heart beating a little too fast. The last time he hadn't been able to find Sam his brother had ended up in the hospital.

His instincts kicked in and Dean pulled the blade from where it was strapped on his boot. He flipped it in his hand, moving stealthily down the hall, stepping deliberately around squeaky floor boards.

A sound brought him to a stop, Dean frowned and listened. It was mostly quiet, and then there it was again; someone drawing in breath quickly, a hushed whimper. Crying. Dean crept forward, following the noise to the room where the witch had died, where Sam almost had. The door was closed, and there was snuffling coming from behind, a desperate attempt to sob as silently as possible.

Dean crouched down in front of the door and peered through a crack in the wood which was left there from when Dean had nearly broken it down to save Sam. He could see a slither of the inside of the room, the blood-stained floor boards, smeared from Bobby's furious scrubbing, and kneeling beside it was Sam. His head was bent forward; his shoulders were hunched and shaking. Sam was crying, a hand clamped over his mouth to keep himself quiet.

Sam's eyes were squeezed shut, tears spilling down his cheeks, but when he opened them to look at where his blood had pooled on the floor he gagged again behind his hand, forcing the sob back into himself.

Sam was grieving, and Dean had no idea what for.

Dean stood up again, hand resting hesitantly on the door knob. He could go in, but Sam would hate that, Sam hid to cry for a reason. Or Dean could leave him to it, leave Sam to wallow in his misery. He let go of the door knob and crept back down the hallway. He put the knife back into the strap and stood at the top of the stairs.

"Sam, lunch is ready," he called, eyes on the door at the end of the hall. He could imagine Sam stiffening up behind it, hurriedly trying to hide any proof that he'd been crying.

The door creaked open and Dean averted his gaze, tried to make it look like he hadn't been paying attention to where Sam would come from. Sam had his hair over his eyes, itching his forehead just so he could cover his face.

"I'm just going to the bathroom," Sam said, voice a little croaky. He hurried into the bathroom and locked the door. Dean sighed and headed back down stairs to find Bobby and John sitting in the kitchen, enduring an awkward silence.

"Don't stop your conversation on account of me," Dean said sarcastically. John gave him an amused smile.

"We're getting on like a house on fire," Bobby snorted. Dean agreed that Bobby and John's relationship somewhat resembled a burning house.

"Is Sam okay?" John asked. Dean took a seat, noticing the worried looks on John and Bobby's faces he realised the silence hadn't been because of their strained relationship.

"He's good," Dean replied, not missing a beat, "He's in the bathroom. Are we eating now?"

He quickly turned the conversation away from Sam, picking up a sandwich from a large plate at the centre of the table and shoving it into his mouth, tearing off a huge bite. John and Bobby weren't idiots, and Dean wasn't a particularly good liar when it came to family, but they seemed to let it go for the moment and joined him at the table.

Sam turned up a minute later, taking his seat without a word. His eyes were a little puffy, but other than that he had done a good job of hiding his tears. John put a sandwich on Sam's plate, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

Bobby, Dean and John made small talk as they ate, Sam sat quietly and picked at his sandwich, forcing himself to eat it for Bobby's sake, Dean guessed. When they were done he quietly excused himself and disappeared upstairs again. The three of them watched him go.

"What's going on?" John asked once they heard the bedroom door shut.

Dean was still looking at the staircase where Sam had been only a moment ago. "I don't know," he said, an uncomfortable weight was settling in his stomach.

Sam was off the whole time they stayed at Bobby's house; he was asleep most of the time, and Dean knew that had nothing to do with blood loss, he rarely spoke, he barely ate, he didn't read. He just looked miserable all the time and if Dean ever asked how he was Sam would just say _I'm fine_.

Sam wasn't fine. Not at all.

John had decided they ought to visit Pastor Jim, convinced their friend would be able to sort Sam out. Dean wasn't so sure.

The afternoon before they were meant to leave for Blue Earth, Dean was outside working on a car for Bobby. Dean liked fixing cars, it was something he could do, it was a puzzle he could figure out. It was a hot day and he had his shirt wrapped around his waist. John was out in town, doing something, Dean couldn't remember what it was or hadn't listened when his dad had told him. Dean's mind was completely occupied by thoughts of Sam.

He glanced up at their bedroom window; it was closed, no doubt it would be too hot in the room. Dean watched to see if Sam would open it. He sighed after a long minute, already too impatient to wait and see, he set his tools down and threw his shirt back on, striding over to the house.

Bobby was working the phones, sitting at his desk, researching. He looked up when Dean came in.

"He hasn't made a peep," Bobby said before Dean could get a word out, "Same as usual."

Dean nodded and headed up the stairs. Sam was where he usually was; lying in bed, still wearing his pyjamas. Dean noted with relief that Sam wasn't under the covers. At least he wouldn't boil to death too soon.

Dean rounded the bed so he could see Sam. His little brother was lying on his side, arms rested in front of him. Dean stopped when he noticed the bandages were off, showing the ugly wounds stitched on his skin. Sam was staring blankly at them.

Dean dropped onto the end of the bed.

"Hey, Sammy," he called softly.

Sam squirmed, looking down at Dean briefly, like he'd only just noticed him. He looked back at his wrists and quickly pulled the sleeves of his hoodie down.

"Hey," he answered, just above a whisper.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked, "It's a nice day out there and it's hot in here."

He got up and propped the window open, letting a small breeze into the room.

"Wanna come downstairs?" he suggested. Sam shook his head.

"You don't even have to do anything," Dean pressed, "You can just sit outside and watch me work, it's better than being up here by yourself."

"I'm fine," Sam muttered, "Thanks."

Dean sighed and dropped to his knees in front of Sam so they were face to face. "Tell me what's going on in there, kiddo," Dean begged.

"Not much," Sam said, "I'm just tired, you know?"

"Sammy," Dean said, "This is more than being tired. When was the last time you got up for something other than dinner? When was the last time you had a shower?"

"You saying I stink?" Sam asked, though the attempt at humour was weak.

"I'm saying you're not being yourself," Dean corrected, "Why don't you have a shower, then you can get back in bed. I'll even change the sheets for you."

Sam looked back to his hands, considering it, then he nodded and pushed himself up. He wandered out of the room without a word or a glance back at Dean. Dean watched after him, only snapping out of it when he heard the shower running. He sighed and got to work changing the bed sheets. By the time he was done the bed was crisp and fresh and Sam had been in the shower for fifteen minutes. He sat on his own bed and waited.

Thirty minutes went by.

Then an hour.

Dean flicked through a magazine and checked the clock; an hour and fifteen minutes. Dean got to his feet; Sam never showered this long. He rapped on the bathroom door. The water was still running and Dean grew impatient, knocking again.

"Sammy?" Dean called, "You okay?"

No answer. Dean grew desperate, memories of Sam cutting his own wrists flashed through his head. Nothing good came from leaving Sam on his own, Dean should know that by now.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, "Answer me!"

Sam didn't.

"I'm coming in," Dean warned, already picking the lock. When he entered the room he could barely see a thing in all the mist. The shower was running, water pattering rhythmically, no splash of movement under its flow. Dean stepped forward and yanked the curtain open.

Sam was sitting on the bottom of the tub, knees brought up to his chest, wrists held out in front of him.

"Sam!" Dean cried. Sam looked up, surprised, he fumbled to cover himself.

"Dean, what are you doing?!" he shrieked, grabbing a towel from the side. He stumbled out of the shower, wrapped in the towel, he nearly slipped and Dean caught him before moving to turn off the water.

"What am I doing?" Dean asked indignantly, "You're the one who won't answer me! God, I thought…"

"Dean, I can shower by myself," Sam argued, marching out into the corridor.

"You were gone over an hour," Dean snapped. Sam whirled around, eyes wide. "Forgive me, Sam, if I worry about you when you were released from hospital only a week ago!"

"Over an hour?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, Sam, what the hell were you doing in there?"

Sam swallowed. "I, I don't know…" he stammered, "I was just sitting, I don't know."

Dean took in the terrified look on his little brother's face and he felt all anger seep out of his body. Sam was gazing off with a puzzled expression, Dean steered him back into their room, closing the door behind them.

"Dry off," Dean ordered "And get dressed."

Sam did as he was told, changing into clean pyjamas before dropping onto the end of his bed.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he said miserably, "I just can't snap out of it, I don't even know what _it_ is."

Dean sat down beside him. "You've been through a lot," he reasoned, "You're bound to feel a little… off."

Sam shrugged.

"Come downstairs for a bit, huh?" Dean offered, "You can read one of Bobby's books or something."

Sam looked down, "I want to, I just don't _feel_ like it."

"Maybe not right now," Dean agreed, "But you'll feel better once you get back on your feet. You'll be hunting again before you know it."

That apparently wasn't the right thing to say and Sam tensed up.

"I'm kinda tired," he mumbled, "I'll come down later, okay?"

Dean wanted to argue, but he knew it would be futile. "Okay."

Sam didn't come down until dinner, where he was quiet and seemed to have little appetite. The same thing went on, even once they got to Jim's.

* * *

They'd been in Blue Earth for a few days and Sam had taken up running. Dean had thought this was an improvement but when he caught a glimpse of Sam running down the street like his life depended on it with tears in his eyes he realised it was just a distraction. Sam still slept a lot and ate little and read not at all.

One morning, while John was looking for a case, and Sam was in bed, Dean was in the kitchen with Jim.

"How long has Sam been depressed?" Jim asked. Dean was taken back; he looked up at the pastor and frowned.

"What?" he snorted, "Sam's not… he's just adjusting, you know? He's had to deal with a lot."

Jim sighed and took a seat opposite. "Dean, I've serviced the church for many years, I've met a lot of people, I've spoken with a lot of people, I know a lot of things. I know Sam is depressed."

"He'll come out of it," Dean insisted, "It's just a bump in the road."

"One day he will," Jim agreed, "But that day will come sooner if you acknowledge what's happening now."

Dean thought about it, a lot. He didn't understand what would make Sam so sad, Sam didn't seem to either. Dean tried to help, he went to the library and borrowed books Sam might like, and he even asked the librarian for help. He cooked Sam's favourite food for dinner. He watched Sam's favourite movies with him. Nothing made a difference.

"I'm supposed to be at school," Sam mumbled one evening while they were in bed. Dean signed Sam up for the local high school the next day. He even convinced John to stay in Blue Earth until Sam graduated.

Sam went to school for the few weeks remaining. That was all he did. He got up early, went to school; he came home and did his homework and then went to bed. One evening, he'd come down to pick at his dinner before disappearing upstairs again, as usual.

"When does Sam graduate?" John asked after Sam had left the table.

"Next week," Dean answered. Jim eyed the two of them suspiciously as he washed the dishes.

"I think we should get back on the road once he's finished, get him ready for full-time hunting," John said, "It's better to get him busy, maybe it'll get him out of his slump."

"Maybe," Dean mumbled, though he didn't believe it.

A week later, Sam graduated. In Dean's mind Sam would have skipped onto the podium, waved his high school diploma at Dean in the crowd and grinned from ear to ear for the rest of the day. In reality, Sam couldn't have gotten off the stage quick enough; he had already taken the gown off by the time he met up with John and Dean.

"Let's go," he had mumbled, already heading for the car.

Later that night, Dean found the diploma in the trash.

Dean was worried, no, he was terrified. Sam wasn't right, and he didn't show any signs to getting better. Dean couldn't figure out what it was.

"They'll never fade," Sam had been looking at his wrists again.

"Is that why you're so sad?" Dean had asked. Sam had looked up, eyes a little wide, then he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Dean didn't understand the joke.

The mail came the day they planned to leave, shoved into the mailbox at the end of Jim's drive. Dean went to fetch, as he'd been asked. He flipped through the letters, curiosity being the only reason. He almost choked when he realised one was for Sam. He carefully opened it.

 _Dear Mr Sam Winchester,_

 _Congratulations! On the behalf of the faculty at Stanford University, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Stanford as a member of the class of 2005 with a full scholarship…_

Dean shoved the letter in his pocket and hurried back inside.

"We need to tell him," Dean urged, waving the letter in his father's face. John sputtered and sat up, snatching the paper away so he could read it. His eyes trailed along the letter, eyebrows raising with each word.

"He got into Stanford?" John clarified, clearly proud.

"Full ride," Dean added, he dropped onto the couch with a sigh, "We need to tell him. He deserves to know."

John bit his lip, quiet for a long moment. "I know," he said guiltily, "We… I made a horrible mistake."

"I didn't do anything to stop it," Dean reminded him, "Hell, it was my idea."

John dropped onto the couch beside him. "God, he'll hate us," he said, "He'll never talk to us again."

"True," Dean agreed.

"If he goes then he'll be alone," John went on, "Who'll watch his back? Can you imagine if all the fuglies get wind that there's a Winchester on his own?"

"They'll tear him apart if they find him," Dean realised fearfully, "And the thing that got mom…"

"But he deserves the truth," John seemed to be trying to convince himself.

"And he deserves to stay in one piece," Dean insisted, taking the letter back, "I'm not letting him go. I can't."

John gazed at him and for a moment Dean feared he'd disagree with him. "Me neither," his dad said. Dean ended up shoving the letter to the bottom of his duffel, finding it hard to throw it away. They left that afternoon and Sam barely said a word.

They hunted. Hauntings, monsters, the usual. Sam hunted. Sam was better at it than he'd ever been, mostly because for once he did everything he was told. They had a routine and Dean felt like their family could never be torn apart.

The motel they stayed in during the third week of October was painted a horrible mustard colour, there were only two beds so Sam got the cot, he didn't even argue for the bed, when Dean had offered it Sam had refused.

Dean was sipping a beer when he realised he couldn't remember the last time Sam had argued with their dad. He peered over his shoulder and watched Sam from the couch; Sam was lying on the cot, staring aimlessly at book. Dean knew Sam wasn't really reading it, normally Sam's face scrunched up in concentration when he read.

"Good book?" Dean called. Sam looked up, seeming surprised to be pulled out of whatever was going on in his head.

"S'alright," Sam shrugged, turning back to stare at the page.

"Wanna watch TV?" Dean asked, gesturing to the small set in the room, "It's not great but… I feel like we haven't hung out in a while."

"Dean, I'm with you all the time," Sam pointed out, sounding a little resentful.

"I know you're not reading, dude, quit ignoring me," Dean demanded, "You've been acting weird for months. What's going on?"

"Nothin'," Sam shrugged again. Dean groaned and got to his feet.

"Please, Sammy, talk to me," he begged.

Sam sniffed, he closed to book and got to his feet. "I'm gonna take a shower," he muttered and headed into the bathroom. Dean was about to turn away but the door opened again.

"Do you have the shampoo?" Sam asked, not looking Dean in the eye.

"Yeah," Dean sighed again, realising they wouldn't be having the conversation he wanted. "It's in my duffel."

He turned away and flung himself onto the couch. He could hear Sam rummaging through the bag's contents, and then there was a crinkle of paper. Dean felt his heart stop and he whirled around. Sam was already reading the letter.

He looked up at Dean, eyes glossy. "Dean, what's this?" he asked quietly.

"Sammy…"

"An acceptance letter?" Sam said with disbelief, "I got into _Stanford?_ I don't understand. I don't even remember…"

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," Dean felt his voice crack.

Sam's head snapped up, eyes like fire. "What did you do? What the hell did you do?"

"We just wanted you to be safe, if you left_"

"Oh my God…" Sam breathed, "I had a way _out?_ "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I could have been out of this fucking life but you hid _this_ from me!" Sam waved the letter angrily in Dean's face, "Why don't I remember applying to college, Dean?"

"Because Dad and I commanded you to," Dean blurted, "When you were cursed."

Sam's face twisted with disgust. "Are you fucking with me?"

Dean couldn't produce an answer.

"I applied for Stanford and _I got in_. Do you have any idea how hard that is? I don't even remember any of it."

"We wanted you to be safe, if you'd left then you'd have been unprotected," Dean tried to reason.

Sam snorted. "Safe? How is the way we live safe? You didn't like me doing something on my own so you, what, gave me supernatural amnesia? Do you realise how messed up that is?"

"I didn't want to, Sam," Dean promised, "I swear. I just wanted you to stay. I love you."

They never said that to one another. They knew it, but they never said it. It was an unspoken rule. But the words slipped out of Dean's mouth before he knew it, and he had no desire to take them back. It was the truth.

Sam shook his head. "You don't do something like that to someone you love, Dean."

"Sam, we can change this, we can explain it to Stanford," Dean said desperately, "Maybe you can still go."

"I can't go," Sam growled, "It's too late. Enrollment would have been months ago."

"Sammy, I'm so_"

"Don't call me that!" Sam snapped, "Don't talk to me!"

Dean realised that there were tears streaming down Sam's face.

"You know why I've been so sad?" Sam said quietly, "It's because I thought I was going to have to spend the rest of my life like this. And now I am. You shouldn't have bothered breaking the curse because I'm going to be dad's soldier until I get torn to shreds in some forest in the middle of nowhere."

Dean felt like the air had been beaten out of him. His lips were numb and he stared at his little brother hopelessly, his words non-existent and useless.

Sam turned away, the letter crunching in his fist and he closed the bedroom door behind him. Dean sat on the couch and waited.

"What have I done?" he whispered to himself.

When John came back he immediately dropped the takeout bags on the table and went over to him, Dean's face must have said it all.

"He found the letter," Dean told him, "He's pissed."

"God…" John rubbed a hand over his face, "Where is he?"

"He's been in the bedroom for a while," Dean said, "I figured I'd give him a little time to cool off."

"We can explain it to him. He might not understand but it's the truth."

"I tried," Dean insisted, "But he wasn't having any of it. And he's right. We really fucked it up this time, Dad."

"He'll hate us," John admitted, "But at least he'll be safe. We can protect him this way."

"We can't protect him from himself," Dean argued, "We made him miserable, and that was before he knew the truth."

John sighed wearily, "Maybe I should talk to him."

"I don't know…"

"He can kick me out if he wants to. I just want to talk to him."

John was already at the door. He knocked. There was no answer, Dean hadn't expected one. John knocked again.

"Sammy?" he called. Still, no answer. John twisted the door handle and let himself in, Dean was close on his heels.

The room was cold, a soft breeze filled the room, and it was dark and empty. Dean felt panic rise in his chest, threatening to choke him.

"Sam?" he called, pushing past John into the room. He stopped when he noticed Sam's bag was missing. The acceptance letter lay on Dean's bed, something was scrawled under where Sam's name was printed on the envelope. Dean picked it up with shaky fingers.

 _Don't look for me_.

* * *

 **This is actually the end. So this was the two-part story that ended up with six chapters. I know the ending is a cliff-hanger but I wanted to leave it open for me to come back to one day, I really enjoyed writing this story and I think it still has a lot to tell. Also, this is my first finished supernatural fic, which is funny since it's the sixth I've started. Now that I've finished this (Or taken a break from it) I can carry on with my other stories.**

 **Thank you to everyone who followed, favourited, or reviewed, you really encouraged me to expand on this story. I've never had such a response to any of my stories, this one has the most reviews per chapter. Thank you all so much!**

 **Also: I love to write, any prompts would be welcome, it's a great practice for me. I wouldn't be interested in any ships so I'm sorry if that's what you'd want. If anyone wants to give me a prompt you are welcome to, I can promise it would be written even if it takes a while and if it fits what I'm comfortable writing about.**

 **Again, thank you everyone!**


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